


More Than All The World (The Werewolf's Tale)

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Actually So Does Erik, Aftercare, All The Hurt/Comfort Ever, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, But It's Shaw So That's Okay, Character Death, Charles needs ALL the hugs, Confrontations, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fairy Tales, Falling In Love, First Meetings, First Time, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Healing, Historical Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Alex/Armando, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Marriage Proposal, No Beach Divorce, No Really They Finally Get To Actually Have Sex, Past Abuse, Playing Chess With Werewolves, Protective!Erik, Protectiveness, Roses, Royal Weddings, Sex, Sexual Content, Telepathy, Transformation, True Love, Weddings, Were-Creatures, Werewolf!Erik, goldfish, hurt!charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Erik/Charles story very loosely based on Marie de France’s 12th-century French werewolf tale, in which Erik is the man transformed into a wolf (he’ll get changed back by the end, it’s not that kind of story, though they very definitely do fall in love) and Charles is a king and eventually there’s a happy ending. Also, a villain’s nose gets bitten off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act One

**Author's Note:**

> I am using the Robert Hanning/Joan Ferrante translation of Marie’s _lais_ for reference and English translation aid; the title, opening and closing quotes, and all chapter titles, come from that version of “Bisclavret”. Written for the xmen_tales fairy tale fun.

_in the old days people used to say—_   
_and it often actually happened—_   
_that some men turned into werewolves_   
_and lived in the woods…_

 

One: _and a wise man said to the king/ we’ve seen many strange things happen in this land…_

He was running. That was all that mattered.

Through forests. Bushes and scrub-brush and fallen branches that tore at his body. Hard ground. The whistle of wind.

Shouts, in the distance, chased him.

“It went that way!”

“Which way?”

“Over there—just follow the dogs—”

“Just don’t let it get away!”

Please, he thought, let it get away. Let _him_ get away. He was a him. He was human.

He had been human. He wasn’t, anymore.

“Bloody _wolves_ …” The voice, falling behind, sounded disgusted. Muttered curses about creatures with unnatural intelligence. He wanted to laugh. Couldn’t.

Wolves couldn’t. Weren’t built for laughter.

He’d not always been a wolf. He’d been a man. Human. A man who, granted, occasionally changed into a wolf, sometimes, to the pull of the glowing full moon. But he’d always come back, before. He wasn’t certain of much, memories all twisted up and tangled with the lure of instinct, of wolf-shape, of endless running and fear, but he was certain of that.

He knew his name was Erik. He knew he’d been human. He knew he’d been more than human. Knew that the way he recognized the song of iron in his blood, the hum of precious metals buried in the earth, thrumming with his pulse. The way he felt each arrowhead split the air, whirring past him. Never touching his skin.

Of course they were hunting him. They were hunting a wolf. Wolves were cruel, dangerous beasts. Sheep-killers. Child-killers, sometimes.

He’d never killed anyone. That he could recall.

He thought he’d been running for years.

One more arrow, not properly aimed, but too close; he bolted out of cover, startled into flight, and nearly ended up trampled by unexpected hooves.

The horse reared, shied, slipped; the rider went flying, and then didn’t move. It might be a trick, though. And he’d have to run past the body to accomplish his escape. Erik backed up. Growled.

“If you’re going to make that noise,” said a rather annoyed voice, through fallen leaves and dirt and a muffling arm, “I’m not going to help you.”

What?

“No, actually, I probably still am…oh, ow, stop that.” This last in response to the horse, who’d come back over and was nosing her collapsed rider worriedly. He rolled over, patted the wet nose, sat up, winced. “That really wasn’t very graceful of me, was it…”

Erik knew he was staring. He couldn’t look away.

He’d never been able to explain—to whom? when?—the shapes and colors of the world, in wolf-form. It wasn’t like having an animal’s senses, or a human’s. It was like tasting green, or hearing raspberries. Like seeing with two sets of perceptions, two versions of eyes. The collision was beautiful, and terrible, and it gave him a vicious headache for days.

But he could see colors. Could know shapes and objects for what they were. Could think like a man. Could remember some things. Like the subtle differences in shades of blue. There were so many. They ranged from pale and icy to hot and sunburnt and dry.

And this man, the one testing limbs rather gingerly and gazing at him, had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

Not a man-at-arms, his brain concluded, while the rest of him was busy staring. Perhaps minor nobility. Younger than he’d thought. The fabric of the clothing, while expensive, was plain. Undecorated. And that fair skin had surely never been toughened on campaign.

The eyes suggested differently, however. Those currently-calm oceans’d seen battles. Erik couldn’t help wondering when, and where.

“So…” Interrupted by a tiny groan, as the eyes sat a little more upright, on the ground. “Not the best first impression, is it?...oh, well. You’ve not run away from me yet.”

He hadn’t. Why hadn’t he? He was trapped in place by blue eyes and a beckoning accent, under the curiously craning branches of the shadowy trees, and he hadn’t run away.

“Hello, by the way. I’m Charles. And you are?”

Erik sat down in place, probably out of some kind of belated mental shock, he thought. The man was offering a hand. As if he honestly thought the wolf facing him might shake it in return.

“It’s fine if you don’t remember your name, but you could at least answer me. We both know you understand.” And, in his head, a voice: _Possibly this will work better; can you hear me this way?_

A voice. In his _head_. Unruffled and vaguely amused and supremely self-assured, sweet and tart and intoxicating as late-summer blackberries and powerful wine. Erik wanted to be shocked, was shocked, but somehow beneath that not surprised at all. As if that voice, sharing his thoughts, was only natural. As if this, here and now, was precisely the way the world’d always been meant to be.

_Glad you think so!_ The amusement got a little brighter; under that, though, lay the same sensation, delighted mutual recognition, elated oceans reflected in those eyes.

_Oh, that’s beautiful, are you always so poetic?_

_What—I—no!_

_Oh, you CAN talk to me!_

_I…_

_Do you have a name? I mean, of course you do, you ARE human, I could tell, that was why I wanted to find you first, my guardsmen are wonderful people but they have equally wonderful aim and they’re also terribly overprotective and I thought I should—_

_Charles?_

_Yes?_

_What is happening?_

_Oh…well, I have a…it’s a gift, I suppose. I hear thoughts. And emotions. I could hear you from miles away; you have a fantastically incandescent mind. Most people’re candles; you’re a lighthouse beacon. Or did you mean what’s happening right now, with the hunt? Sorry, I can answer that too if you’d like, it’s—_

Incandescent, Erik thought, indistinctly amazed; and then found himself equally amazed at how easily he’d picked up the rhythm of interrupting Charles’s infinite sentences. _I meant right now. Hunt?_

_There were reports of wolf attacks. Bodies, in the woods. And sightings, which I assume were of you, but you’ve not killed anyone, have you? No, I didn’t think so. So that’s a mystery, then, isn’t it…_

Charles paused to think about that. Erik was still reeling from the offhanded certainty with which the verdict of his innocence’d been delivered.

All at once, voices bellowed, nearby. Someone shouted Charles’s name; someone else said something that sounded like “Your majesty, will you speak up and answer your guardsmen, please!” and Erik, confused, thought, mostly to himself: I’m that important? I’m being hunted by the king?

_Er…_ Charles sounded a bit embarrassed. _There’s something I should probably tell you in regards to that…_

At which point four very disheveled royal men-at-arms sprinted into their clearing, weapons drawn, and leapt in Erik’s direction. There was a very brief, intense, interaction.

“Stop that!” Charles snapped, not bothering to stand up. Rather impressively, this worked.

“All right, all of you. Alex, put down the broadsword, please, we talked about that. And, Sean, yes, he did bite you, but only because you tried to hit him with an arrow. Which, by the way, was never going to work; I’ll tell you why later. And you—” This last being directed at Erik. “Teeth out of my guardsmen, please. I like them unpunctured, thank you.”

Erik growled. But did as commanded. Not because he was being obedient. Because he wanted to anyway. Was choosing to listen. That was all.

“He’s a wolf.” That was the one Charles’d referred to as Alex.

“Top marks for observation.”

“Be quiet, Hank, you were voting for live capture—”

“The bodies seemed to be rather odd if examined in terms of past wolf attacks and I don’t believe they fit any sort of established pattern—”

“Someone make him be quiet before he says anything about gangrene again.”

“All of you shut up,” Charles said, absently, “and Hank is correct about the bodies, by the way. And no one’s to shoot anyone. Him, or yourselves, or me.”

“We would never—”

“You _did_.”

“Once! And that was an accident. Charles, are you hurt?”

“He’s still your king! Are you hurt, your majesty?”

“I’ve asked you not to call me that…”

“Are you hurt, my lord?”

“Really,” Charles protested, “that’s even worse, and no, I’m fine. Entirely my fault.” And, to Erik, _sorry about them. I’ve known most of them for years. Took them in when—when they had nowhere else to go. They’re a bit…devoted._

Erik couldn’t reply. Was slowly processing the fact that his rescuer, the young man speaking into his thoughts while a large bruise gradually formed over one graceful cheekbone, and Charles, and the ruler of the forests and the villages and the _entire realm,_ were all the same person.

“You are, as Sean so inelegantly pointed out, sitting next to a wolf, Charles. Perhaps you could back away slowly?”

“It’s all right.” Charles smiled in Erik’s direction. Held out that hand again, dirt-streaked and sincere. “He’s not going to hurt me.”

Yes, I am, Erik wanted to snarl. I am, I’m vicious, I’m an animal, I could—

_Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not an animal. You’re as human as I am._ Those blue eyes sparkled into his, with shared excitement, like a secret, delighted stars in the ocean-water depths. And the hand remained extended. An offer for the taking.

_I am sorry I didn’t tell you right away. I was about to. Shall we agree to blame Sean for the interruption? I generally do; it makes life much easier._ And, aloud: “I think perhaps you should come home with me. Would you like that?”

“Charles—”

“Oh, please. He’s less likely to bite my arm off than half the court, and he could use a friend.”

“He’s a _wolf_.”

“And you’re a worrywart. I’m not seeing the problem.” Charles looked back at Erik. Tipped his head to one side, an invitation. His hair fell hopefully into his face.

Charles. His Charles—and when had he started thinking of this man as his, they’d known each other for mere _seconds_ , alone with the intrigued glances of the trees—was the king. And was asking Erik to come home with him.

He’d known the king was young. A random memory, drifting up from the chaotic flotsam that was presently his brain: coronation announcements, the ending of the Regency, terribly blurry portraits on newly-minted coins.

There’d been some sort of…controversy. He couldn’t remember anything more clear than that. Had the sense of someone else’s derision, tossing the news away as trivial, unlikely to matter. A voice saying _idealist_ , with scorn. _He won’t last long_.

Idealist, he thought, and looked back at Charles. Evidently true.

He wondered, briefly, how old that tiny memory was. Had it been recent? Or had Charles in fact managed to outlast the dire predictions?

And then he wondered how old Charles in fact was, when the king smiled at him, jewel-box gaze a little worried now, as if pondering the chances that Erik might turn and run. That smile lit up his entire face, and that plus the bruises and the dirt made him look like a small child at play, but the waters of those eyes were very deep, beneath the warm surface tides.

_Again with the poetry_ , Charles observed, cheerfully. _Are you coming home with me, then? We can work on solving all of those mysteries. I do enjoy mysteries. I like a good challenge, don’t you?_

And Erik shook his heavy wolf’s head, in disbelief, in astonishment, in something like affection, and said, helplessly, to everything, _yes_.

_Brilliant!_ Charles started to get up. Went pale. Sat back down, abruptly. Erik, without even thinking, ran across the few feet between them and offered his shoulder. Support.

_Thank you._ “I think I’ve done something unfortunate to my ankle…”

“Does this hurt?”

“Yes. But…not that badly. I can probably stand up now, actually.”

_You canNOT,_ Erik said, in concert with at least three guardsmen. Charles blinked.

_That was rather emphatic._

_Sorry._

_No._ A grin. “I’m fairly sure I just landed wrong, the first time. I can walk. It’ll help with the soreness. And I can lean on—oh, I still don’t know your name!” _You never did tell me. Or do you not recall? If not, don’t be concerned, we’ll just add that to the mysteries that you and I can solve._

“It has a name?”

“He is a person, and he does.” Expectance, in their heads, and a pause, because Erik hadn’t given any answer. The leaves, on the trees, murmured to each other, in the wait.

He wasn’t certain of much—barely anything at all—but he did know his name. One of the only things he had left. Could he say it to someone else, even voicelessly? Could he give that away?

But Charles put a hand on his back and leaned weight against him, as if he knew that Erik’d be there, and Erik let himself be leaned on. Because he wanted to be.

He felt Charles smile again, fleetingly, without sound.

_Charles?_

_Yes?_

_I do. Remember my name. Or part of it, at least._

_Yes?_

_My name is Erik._


	2. Act Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik and Charles go home, or Charles's home, in any case. A unicorn tapestry and some playing of chess.

Two: _let us return home, the king said/ I’ll extend my peace to this creature, and hunt no more today_

The castle was imposing. It knew how to loom. Did so impressively.

Erik looked at Charles. Charles sighed. “It wasn’t my design. Not even my father’s. Some bloodthirsty warrior ancestor, I believe.”

“I like it,” Hank said, pausing beside them. “I’ve seen some incredible things, in the dungeons.”

Erik froze, one paw in the air.

Charles glanced down at him, and then began laughing so hard he had to lean against an ominously thick pillar for support.

Hank turned scarlet. “I mean—I didn’t mean—Charles, help!”

_Hank is a doctor,_ Charles said, still snickering. _Fully trained, in fact. He’s made some remarkable discoveries in the field of anatomy, and we’ve turned the dungeons into his laboratory. Quite a lot of the equipment was easily converted, and—_

_All right, yes, thank you._ He’d not seriously thought they’d be conducting nefarious practices on prisoners, but the clarification helped nevertheless.

“What Charles probably isn’t telling you,” Hank said, “is that he’s a more or less a doctor, too—”

“I’m not trained! I wasn’t allowed to—”

“—and he’s an actual genius, and he’s corresponded with the masters over at the new universities in England, and if his stepfather hadn’t been such a—” That sentence cut off without warning.

Erik looked at Hank. Then at Charles. Who’d stopped laughing.

“Sorry.” Aimed at, from the direction of Hank’s gaze, the ground, or possibly Charles’s shoes. The ground didn’t reply, but Charles said, gently, affectionately, “It’s all right, you can say it, he _was_ ,” and Hank smiled a bit more, gratefully, and then looked up, and then visibly panicked.

“Raven!”

Erik glanced at the sky, involuntarily. Then at the girl advancing toward them out of the closest tower gate. She did not resemble a sharply-beaked bird, except perhaps in the ferocity of her expression.

“Charles! You said you were fine!”

“I am!”

“Laboratory—” Hank said, and fled. Charles, Erik noticed, had subtly maneuvered them around so that the wolfish bulk was between himself and the oncoming stormclouds.

_Charles, should I be concerned?_

_Er…_

“You’re covered in dirt!”

“I was in a forest!”

“And you’re limping!”

“I might’ve fallen off the horse a little bit—”

“Are you more or less all right?”

“I believe so, yes—”

“Good,” she said, and hit him in the arm. Not a ladylike little slap. A blow with weight behind it.

Erik growled. Instinct. Couldn’t help it. Really.

“Ouch,” Charles said, and scowled. “What was—”

“You sent me a three word message! That you were, and I quote, perfectly fine! I was imagining you half-eaten by wolves!” At which point she seemed to notice Erik’s bared teeth. “You brought home a wolf! Charles Francis—”

“Erik,” Charles sighed, “please allow me to introduce my sister, the Lady Raven. Who throws punches like a man, and not like a lady at all.”

“You deserved it,” she said, unrepentant. “Also, you’re supposed to introduce him to me, not the other way around. Did _any_ of those courtly etiquette protocol lessons sink in?”

“No, I’m a hopeless case. Erik needs our help, Raven, and he’s not a wolf, or he technically is, but he’s been transformed into one, which is fascinating, actually, when you think about it, the way in which the entire structure of his body can be—”

Even Erik, who had known Charles for approximately two hours time and the equivalent walking distance, felt the familiar oncoming urge to roll his eyes. Fortunately, Raven did it for him.

_I heard that._

_I am not fascinating, Charles._

_Yes, you are._

“Are you talking to him?” She looked from Charles to Erik, and back again. “You _are_ talking to him. You’re talking to him and smiling. Charles, are you—”

“ _You_ can stop talking,” Charles said, and then, “ _Raven_!” and blushed an extraordinary shade of pink.

_Care to tell me?_ Erik inquired.

_Not even under Hank’s instruments of torture. Do you have any siblings?_

_No_. He’d answered reflexively, then stopped, surprised. It was true.

_Be grateful,_ Charles muttered, and then, happily, _oh, also, good! If you can remember that you can probably remember other—_

“Charles, share your conversations with the rest of us.”

“Oh, sorry—”

“Actually, don’t. I don’t think I want to know.” She grinned. Erik could’ve sworn her eyes changed color, for a moment, in the light. “You two have fun examining your bodily structure. I’m going for a swim. Charles—well, I’m glad you _are_ fine.” She leaned over Erik to hug her brother, briefly, but with emotion. Charles hugged her back, and she punched him in the other shoulder, and bounced away.

“Well, now you’ve met Raven…” _I won’t give you the grand tour, because frankly it’s not very exciting and I generally get lost, but would you like to come see my rooms? Oh—oh, sorry, I didn’t mean—that sounded like—_ Charles was blushing again, but this time Erik could feel the embarrassment, and taste it, pink and sweet as marzipan candy in their heads. _I’m not propositioning you, I swear, I only meant—_

Oh. _Oh_. It’d taken him a second, but he got that, too, at last. No wonder Charles’d been mortified, at his sister’s earlier remark. Erik wondered briefly whether it mattered for the succession that the current ruler preferred men. Probably not. Any childless monarch could adopt, in the absence of legitimate heirs.

_I’m so sorry,_ Charles was apologizing. _If you’re not—if that makes you uncomfortable—I know it’s not common, and I didn’t mean to let it, ah, slip like that, and—_

_I don’t mind._ And he didn’t. There were far worse possibilities in the world. For that matter, Erik himself was starting to suspect that, as a human, he might have certain preferences in that direction, too. It wasn’t even a memory. Just a sudden fascination with unruly hair and blue eyes and endless sentences. Potentially he simply had preferences in _Charles’s_ direction.

Wolf, he reminded himself. Not human. He was a damned wolf. And even if they got him back to being a human, somehow, miraculously, between Charles’s determination and Hank’s medical knowledge, he’d still be a werewolf. Not man-shaped, for three nights out of each lunar cycle. And Charles would still be his king.

_If you’re sure…_ Charles still sounded a bit dubious. Erik hesitated. _How much can you hear?_

_Of what you’re thinking? Not much, unless I try. Surface thoughts. Anything very clear. Anything directed at me. But for anything deeper I’d have to go into the person’s mind, and that’s an invasion of privacy; I have some scruples, you know._ Teasing. Lemon-sugar and ice beneath a sunny sky. Beneath that, something cooler and darker, underground. Rich earth untouched by the rays. Charles, Erik realized, was feeling anxious. Tentative. Afraid to have offended him. Backing away.

He wasn’t sure how to fix that, what he might be able to do, what he, a stranger, might have the right to do. Finally, he offered, _I’d like to see where you live_ , because that was another truth. And Charles smiled again, so maybe it’d been the right thing to say.

Charles, it turned out, had a tower to himself. Not the master bedchamber—Erik’d looked up at him quizzically, when they’d turned off of the main hall; had gotten a smile, but no explanation—but spacious nonetheless. The stair wound gleefully and haphazardly up in spirals, and Charles ran a hand along the wall as they climbed, probably unconsciously, but his fingertips seemed to know the path, and Erik imagined him making the gesture year after year, stroking pale stone as it purred under his hand. Even the tower walls liked Charles, he concluded.

And Charles, evidently, liked books. They exploded out everywhere, from the brightly lit first-floor room that was obviously in use as a study, to the steps themselves, to the walls of the bedroom, where warm-hued covers glowed from every available surface, and some normally unavailable ones, such as atop the bedpillows, or tucked into a single unpartnered left shoe.

The walls’d been left simple, cool grey stone, but tapestry-work glittered opposite the door. A unicorn by a pool, in the moonlight; Erik gazed at it, curious. Most feudal lords would’ve opted for hunting or battle scenes, he suspected, but then he was also completely certain that Charles wasn’t a typical feudal lord in any sense, so he really shouldn’t be surprised by the art selection.

“I’ve always liked it,” Charles said, appearing behind him. “It’s peaceful, I think. And unicorns are emblems of purity, you know.”

_Is purity something you aspire to, then?_

_Oh, good god, no. Ask Raven about the—or, er, no, don’t. She might actually tell you. And, to be honest, there hasn’t been anyone lately. Not since—_

_Not since you became king,_ Erik finished for him.

_Yes_. And they just stood there looking at each other, for a moment, in the quiet, pale wolf’s-eyes meeting oceanic blue, under the benevolent gaze of the unicorn.

“I don’t suppose,” Charles said after a second, interestedly, “that you play chess…?”

_I have no idea_. But he’d be willing to try. Shocking, in fact, how willing he was to try. Whatever Charles might suggest.

It wasn’t as if he’d had any other plans, in any case. He could stay here. For a while. With Charles and the unicorn and all the free-flowing enthusiasm that lit up the world.

Charles looked around. Dove for a pile of manuscripts, and excavated a chessboard, eventually, after tossing aside a dressing gown and a stack of sketches. “I _knew_ it was here. No one else will ever play with me, except Hank, and half the time he gets distracted and starts trying to imagine how the game might be arranged in four dimensions…”

_I can try to keep up._ Very dry. But the sight of the chessboard, neat squares laid out in black and white, sparked a distant flash of memory, like lightning at the corner of his eye.

Charles grinned, doubtless catching that. Looked at Erik thoughtfully, head tipped to the side, and then plopped down on the floor, one arm collecting a pillow along the way. _I imagine this’ll work better than a table…? Black, or white?_

_Black._ Erik turned around, twice, finding a comfortable spot on Charles’s rug. Got all the legs and the tail to behave at last. Nudged a couple of too-friendly books out of the way. Charles looked comfortable, too. Not at all regal or dignified. But happy.

And still bruised. The one over his cheek had spread, and when he pushed up his sleeves another pebble-sized darkness became visible on his arm. And he bit his lip, momentarily, when tucking up his feet, flexing that ankle.

_I’m sorry_ , Erik said, and meant it.

_I’m all right. Only a bit sore._

_Sore?_

_It’s just the bruises…_

_Then I am sorry that you are bruised._ The words were a little awkward—he’d uttered apologies before, of course, he knew he had, he had disjointed memories of speaking the words—but he had the impression that this was the first time he’d genuinely felt the remorse.

_I know you are. But it’s truly not that bad. Promise_. Charles smiled at him. Moved a pawn. Lifted eyebrows.

Erik considered for a moment. Sent a very specific instruction about a knight, and then, while Charles was busy complying with the request, hauled himself up out of his comfortable rug-spot, and grabbed a pillow, with his teeth. Dropped it expectantly next to that injured foot.

A laugh. A shower of sparks like shooting stars, rare and wondrous, in his mind. _Thank you._

_Your move._

_Hmm,_ Charles said, smiling, _yes, I suppose it is_. And wolves couldn’t smile, not properly, but Erik was absolutely certain that Charles could feel him smiling back.


	3. Act Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik and Charles get used to living together, and wanting to live together.

Three: _the king considered the beast a great wonder/ and held him very dear_

He’d won the chess game. Charles had gazed at him with unalloyed delight, and demanded an immediate rematch. Erik rather thought he’d been winning that one too, but they’d been interrupted by a chambermaid, who’d walked in, spotted Erik sprawled across the rug, shrieked and flung her sheets at the chessboard, and fled.

Charles had sighed. Shut his eyes for a minute. Erik guessed that he was talking to someone, and hadn’t wanted to interrupt.

_Sorry. It’s only her second day. We did tell her it was a rather unusual household, but…_

_Unusual how, exactly?_ He’d had some ideas—Hank and the laboratory, and Charles’s first-name basis with his guardsmen, had contributed to those—but he’d needed to know.

Charles had grinned at him again. Eyed the chessboard, now vanquished by a mound of invading white fabric. _New game later? It does seem to be helping, by the way, I’m not only asking because you’re spectacular at chess. You remember that you are. You remember playing._

He had. _Yes?_

_As far as the unusual…well. You know what you can do. I know what you can do; I can hear you thinking about it. Go on. Show me._

_You—you want me to—_ Some other fragment of memory broke loose, at that. Some other voice saying, each word clearly pronounced as the blade of a knife, _show me what you can do_. He found himself on his feet, hackles rising.

_Well, not if you don’t want to_. Charles, seemingly unperturbed, hadn’t moved; but Erik could feel the tension in the back of that thought, coiling, Charles ready to stop him if he sprang. With some effort, he sat back down.

Charles wasn’t the person in his memories. He knew that much. Charles was asking out of curiosity, the lure of the new and unknown. Charles wouldn’t hurt him.

_Why do you associate your abilities with hurt, do you think?_

_I—don’t know._

_Do you—_

_I said I don’t know!_

_…all right. Do you mind giving a small demonstration, though? I’d love to see you in your element. Pardon the pun._

_That…really is a terrible pun._

_I know. I couldn’t resist._ Charles studied the snowbound chessboard. _I could’ve made a joke about irony, too. I want you to know that I was practicing restraint._

_Thank you for that._ One of Charles’s books—natural philosophy, he thought—had metal clasps. The bindings shimmered, in his thoughts. A work of art. He’d reached for it, not physically. Let it float up off the floor, and into Charles’s outstretched hands. Along with the unspoken apology.

_Brilliant! And how DID you know I’ve been looking for that volume of the Galen? I couldn’t find it anywhere!_

_It was under your bed. I—Charles, thank you._

The ocean-water eyes had warmed, at that. _You’re very welcome, you know._

Erik’d breathed in, at the force of that welcome, in his thoughts. Sincerity like a sunrise. Unadulterated joy. _…I know._

_…yes. Me, too. Yes. Now, I think you should meet everyone properly, don’t you? You know about me, of course. Sean ought to be off duty about this time; let’s start there…_

And they had.

Charles had been right. It was an unusual household.

It was, in fact, a haven for the unusual. Oh, there were the expected courtiers, diplomats, foreign ambassadors, homegrown princesses, and hangers-on. Charles greeted each one of them with a nod and a smile, and occasionally plucked a name out of thin air, a word or reminder, assertions of power when needed, a scalpel instead of a sword.

Erik watched all those interactions, and found himself impressed, and also a bit lonely. That wasn’t his Charles. Not the person politely dismissing the Spanish envoy with a word and a glance, or casually dropping references to supposedly secret new alliances into conversation.

_His_ Charles liked chess, and old books, and scientific advances. Got excited over new potential for all of humanity, or, equally, an improved process for refining purer chocolate.

His Charles, given a tiny cup of liquid drinking chocolate, made noises that were positively sinful. Erik stared, wide-eyed, at that tongue sliding over pink lips, and hated being a wolf.

It _was_ an unusual household, and not only because of the chocolate. Each of Charles’s handpicked guardsmen had some sort of special ability, from Sean’s earsplitting scream to Alex’s devastating light beams, which he’d only agreed to demonstrate far away from any sort of civilization, after half a day’s ride. Charles and Hank, evidently, had been working on ways to contain his power; they’d been mostly successful, but the materials were imperfect. Erik’d found himself thinking of ways he might be able to help with the alchemical process, on the way home.

Home. It was a simple word. He found himself thinking it more and more often. Wondering what it might mean for him.

The castle meant safety for all the misfits, the strays, the extraordinary people Charles’d gathered over the years. A sanctuary, when families and the Church and friends all cast them out. Charles never turned anyone away. Gave them comfort, instead, and a space to call their own. And they’d do anything for him. Erik could see that at a glance. Loyalty. Selflessness. Concepts he couldn’t recall ever having known.

Raven, it turned out, was Charles’s adopted sister, not a blood relation at all, but gifted as the rest of them. She’d smirked at Erik and transformed herself into a perfect female wolf, golden fur and gleaming eyes, and then flickered into a blue-scaled form that’d caused Charles to yelp, “Nakedness!”, and then into her human-hued self, smugly satisfied.

_Astounding_ , he’d thought at Charles, and Charles’d said, “Yes, I know, but she’s my _sister_ , I can’t handle seeing her without clothes—!” and Hank, who’d just walked into the dining hall, had turned cherry-red and backed out again.

The ancestral castle was a luxurious place. Rich, and opulent. But not overdone. Never arrogant or cold. It couldn’t be, not with Charles’s abandoned teacups and Hank’s experiments and books creeping stealthily into every corner of each room. It steadfastly refused to live up to the initial foreboding appearance, on the inside.

Erik trotted around at Charles’s side, whenever he had the chance. Followed him into meetings and dinners and the library, as if he had every right to be there, and Charles never asked him to leave, and started absentmindedly reaching out for him, too, one hand settling onto Erik’s back at random moments, playing with his fur. Like the walls, Erik thought, amused: Charles wanting to _touch_ , to feel the reality of the world around him. Of Erik at his side.

He never felt unwelcome. Even the servants, plainly used to dealing with the unexpected, smiled at him. Didn’t shoo him away from anywhere he wanted to explore; he assumed Charles’d told them all he was human, despite present appearances, and therefore could be trusted not to steal meat from the cooking spits, in the kitchen.

He might’ve taken a half-chicken, once. But it hadn’t been for him. Charles’d been working all day, audiences in the morning and consultations with Hank in the afternoon and estate management meetings after that. Someone had to ensure that Charles ate, and it obviously wasn’t going to be Charles himself.

The flight through the kitchens’d been entirely worth it, for the look in those spectacular eyes.

He suspected that Charles had, quietly, had a word with the cooks; even after that escapade, no one scolded him, or told him to stay out. In fact, several of them started sneaking him food, for himself and for Charles; Erik was no mind-reader, but had the sense that they appreciated having someone around who could sit pointedly on a foot until Charles remembered to eat. Wolves immobilizing one’s extremities, after all, were difficult to ignore.

He’d thought that Charles would start delving into his mind right away, judging from all the exuberant  impatience and love of things arcane and undiscovered. But Charles didn’t push. Didn’t want to hurt him. Tried small things, at first. Chess-playing. Various regional foods. Scents. Any potential memory triggers. Some of them worked, to a degree. Some didn’t.

Mostly they didn’t. Erik, trapped inside his wolf’s body, sometimes wondered whether his human life had been a dream.

They knew his name, of course, and obviously he’d been well educated, but that wasn’t much to go on; he couldn’t remember where he’d lived, or how long he’d been a wolf, and he had some ideas about his physical appearance but for all he knew those ideas would be incredibly outdated and worse than useless. Charles and Hank spent evenings searching through reports of missing persons, but the reports were as always incomplete, unsystematic, and, thus far, unhelpful in any way.

Those first few weeks, he was too unused to being indoors. Found himself occasionally, without warning, bolting for the outside, the world beyond the castle walls, freedom.

The fourth time he came back, uneasily aware that he’d been gone too long, knowing that he’d not found any answers sitting in the tall grass behind the overgrown jousting field, and suffering from an irresistible desire to go back and see blue eyes again, he found Charles pacing, wearing a path into the grass of the courtyard just outside his tower.

_Charles? What’s wrong?_

Charles stopped trying to trample the grass into submission. _Nothing._

_That isn’t true._ He could feel all the uneasiness without even trying. _Charles, please_.

The eyes swiveled away from him. Then back. _You left. You left and I—I don’t mind if you need to—I know this isn’t easy for you, I know you’ve been on your own for—but you left without telling anyone. Without telling me. And I didn’t know—I never know if you’ll come back or if you won’t or if you—_

_Oh,_ Erik breathed, shocked. Sat down, carefully, at Charles’s feet, in the already-crumpled grass. _You—you could have found me. You can—_

_I know I can,_ Charles snapped. _I knew where you were. I always know where you are. I just didn’t know whether you were leaving me._

Erik breathed in again. Looked down, at the bent leaves of green, the marks of Charles’s concern. _I wasn’t leaving you._

Charles studied the fallen blades, as well. “I haven’t helped you yet. Not really. I don’t know why you stay.” Inside the words, behind them, like a faded scar: _of course you wouldn’t, don’t want to, not for me, no one ever—_

_Charles—what—_

_You weren’t supposed to hear that. Never mind._ Gates closing, a definitive swing of portcullis shutting that thought away.

If he’d been human, Erik would’ve bitten his lip. Would’ve tried to touch Charles, maybe, a hand, an arm around those tense and brittle shoulders. That slammed door’d _hurt_ , physically, somewhere in the vicinity of his heart; Charles wasn’t happy, and the unhappiness sliced like tiny daggers under Erik’s skin. And he’d been the cause, however inadvertently. Hadn’t been thinking, or had only been thinking of himself, his own need for space.

Charles needed something. Needed _him_.

He walked over and leaned against Charles’s left leg, as heavily as he could manage without toppling them both over. _I’m sorry. For—I should have been telling you. I’ll always come back. I’m not leaving you._

Charles was short, for a human. Erik, for a wolf, was rather tall; Charles could, and did, lean on him, in turn, after a second. Sighed. _Do you mean that?_

_You can read my mind; you tell me._

_Oh…Erik, thank you._

_No,_ Erik told him, _you don’t have to, and also what do you mean you haven’t helped me? You have._

_I—_

_You help everyone. You take in incompetent guardsmen and give them a refuge and you turn the castle dungeons into refuges for scientific discovery. You saved me, and you didn’t even know me. And you play chess with me, at night._

_…Erik, I…you know I enjoy playing chess with you._

_Even when you lose?_

“Yes, well…I might not mind losing, to you. Once in a while. Sometimes.” _I did say I liked the challenge_.

Charles, Erik wanted to say, I like you. Or, please don’t feel so sad when you touch my shoulder. Please tell me what you didn’t mean to say, before.

But Charles was smiling now, slightly, and even if the deepest ocean trenches of those eyes stayed dark, the sunlight streaked in over the waves at the surface, and warmed the blue with gold. And Erik couldn’t ask, not then, not when he’d only just now gotten to see that smile again.

_Would you…like a challenge now?_

_Perhaps?_

_Charles?_

_Yes?_

_Wolves are…pack animals, you know. Not solitary. And I enjoy playing chess with you, too._

And that hand tightened, briefly, over his shoulder. And a little bit more sunshine came up over the waters, when Charles said _I know_.


	4. Act Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we begin to recover some of Erik's memories, and Erik worries about Charles.

Four: _regardless of where the king might go/ the wolf never wanted to be separated from him_

“I think,” Charles said, pensively, “it’s about time we tried something else.”

Erik didn’t bother asking what he meant by that; he already knew, and was in agreement. It’d been weeks, now. Good weeks, all of them. But no new memories. Nothing leaping up out of the darkness. And no news from Charles’s messengers about a missing man named Erik, who, for all the available evidence, might’ve never existed.

_I’ve told you I don’t normally enter minds without permission…_

_I’m giving you permission_. The early morning was cool, but sunlit; the beams flooded in through the thick glass of the window, and poured like liquid gold across the floor. Charles, curled up in a pile of blankets and clutching a teacup, hadn’t bothered to get out of bed. Neither had Erik. Routine, waking up together. Since the first of the chilly nights, and cold toes under warm wolfen shagginess, and Erik’s discovery of the captivating softness of Charles’s pillows.

Charles had grinned, and let him stay that first night, and then the next, and somehow that’d become another piece of the routine, too.

He liked sharing a bed with Charles. He wasn’t sure he’d ever shared a bed with anyone, but this felt right. Like home, he thought again, and then caught a glimpse of his own fluffy paws, and shut his eyes.

Of course Charles didn’t mind sharing the bed. It no doubt felt like sleeping next to a giant puppy. A pet. Charles probably didn’t have the sort of dreams that prompted Erik to panic and fall off the foot of the mattress in the middle of the night, imagining what that soft skin would feel like in other places, picturing freckles that extended all the way beneath the concealing clothes.

Charles had freckles on his _fingertips_. Erik wanted to taste them all.

_If you trust me,_ Charles said, plainly not following Erik onto that line of speculation _, I’d like to try._

_Now?_ He didn’t even bother answering the conditional. It wasn’t an _if_. Didn’t apply.

_I think so, yes. It’s a Sunday; I haven’t any dignified visitors to entertain for once, and the laboratory’s been quiet, and we ought to start before any major catastrophes occur._ Charles finished off the tea, eyed the dregs as if hoping they’d transform into a refilled beverage, then sighed, stuck an arm out of his blanket-nest, set the cup atop a stack of books on the closest table. Erik stretched, yawned, shook himself, prepared to hop down.

_No, you can stay here. I’m comfortable and we both fit in my bed and that’ll make doing this with you easy._

Erik tried not to whimper. Mostly succeeded.

_Nervous?_

Not about that. _No. Do your worst, Charles_.

_Oh, such a tempting invitation…_ Amusement, crisp and tart as autumn apples, in his head. Charles settling into the connection, sharing sensation. _Here, can I try something?_

_Of course you can._ Charles would never knowingly hurt him.

_Of course I won’t. Let me see…_ Charles frowned, eyebrows knitting together over all the blue, thoughtfully intense. One hand rested on Erik’s head, not his own; Erik’d asked about the gesture, a week or so after arrival, once he’d noticed that Charles didn’t make it all the time.

“It’s a symbol,” Charles’d said, and made a rather complicated expression: wistfulness, resignation, cheerful acceptance. “It lets people know when I’m using the abilities.”

_But you don’t need to—_

_No, I don’t. It makes them feel safer. As if they could actually tell. And if they assume I do need the gestures, well…that can be useful, too._

_Ah. You’re not as innocent as you pretend, are you._

_Oh, Erik,_ Charles’d said, and _that_ expression Erik hadn’t been able to interpret in any obvious way, _I’m not innocent at all._

_Here,_ Charles said, into his thoughts. _Relax for me, please? It’ll be easier to—to see you, if you can._

He attempted to do so. He _did_ trust Charles. No one else, perhaps, in the whole wide world. Only Charles.

_Hmm…_ Fingers, brushing through his mind; not without compassion. They reached into all the shadows, gently. Coaxed dim shapes toward the light.

A house. Quite a grand house. Elegant, but somehow cold. A far cry from Charles’s cozy booklined rooms.

_Yes, thank you, I like you being here too. Let’s see if we can’t make that a bit sharper…_

Chilly stone. A table. The icy gleam of metal, and a laugh. _Can you stop this dagger, young man? Try for me. Try HARDER._

_No!_ Erik shouted, then and now. _NO!_

He felt a snap, like the breaking of bone, in his head, and the world spun dizzily around him. He opened his eyes, half-expecting a gush of blood. But he wouldn’t bleed to death; Charles would save him.

Charles wasn’t in his head.

Charles was lying very still on the bed. Not moving.

_Charles!!_

A gasp, not out loud. Charles blinked, and started to sit up, and then went even more white and opted for leaning on an elbow, instead. _Well, THAT was astoundingly painful…_

_Are you all right? Lie down!_

_I am…_ Charles shut his eyes again. Erik panicked even more. No fucking _hands_ , if he had hands he could ring the bell for servants, for assistance, for _someone_ , but he was a wolf, wasn’t he? He could howl. Someone would come if he howled.

_Don’t worry, Erik, I’m fine._

_You are not!_

“I am.” Open eyes, now. The pain lingered, in creases and lines, but the sapphire gaze was honest, and Charles did manage to sit up, this time. “You’re impressively strong-minded, I have to say…”

_What happened?_

_You threw me out. More accurately, you had a very powerful emotional reaction, and I wasn’t prepared, and that was what threw me out. I am fine, I promise, it was only a shock. Try again?_

_Like hell._

_No, I mean it. I’m all right and I’ll have safeguards in place, this time, and we were getting somewhere. You do recall something more, don’t you?_

_I…think so._ Scattered bits. That house, so chilly and sterile. A face. The shiny silver dagger.

His mother. His mother’s voice: _it is all right, it will be all right…_

_Erik, I’m sorry. We needn’t continue, today, if you’d prefer—_

_I’d prefer you to be all right, Charles._

A purely mental shrug. _I’m already horizontal. I don’t think you can toss me off the bed. And we were making progress. Come here?_

Erik glared. He could be equally stubborn, if necessary, but Charles was asking, and was talking, with no apparent strain, in their heads. And if they made a second attempt now, maybe he could convince Charles to stop, after, and remain in bed all day. With tea.

He flopped down beside Charles, in the pillows. Put his head on one soft arm. Huffed air over all the freckles. Fought not to mutter words about being careful and cautious and overexertion, in their shared thoughts, and heard the corresponding laugh, sweet and clear and bright around the edges with receding twinkles of pain.

_We’ll start somewhere else, I think, for now…oh, this is lovely, here!_ Thoughts chasing a shining thread through shadow, catching a loose end, spinning it back up into the light with gentle fingertips. Memories made of candlelight and gold. A special occasion. Voices singing, sending celebration unashamedly into the night. Echoes up under wooden rafters and broad tables and in his heart.

Erik blinked. Felt himself crying, even in their current bodiless state. Felt Charles reach over and brush a tear away, crying as well.

He picked up that hand in his. In this space, disembodied and magical, he had hands. He could hold Charles’s fingers in his own.

Charles, equally insubstantial, leaned against him. Smiled, watching. _I’d no idea you were Jewish._

_Neither did I._ He did now. The memory drifted in, became part of him, as though it’d never left. As though he’d always known.

Charles had given him that. He squeezed the hand more tightly. Charles, understanding, squeezed right back, and didn’t say anything. Only stood there, holding him, at the heart of rediscovered peace.

After some indeterminate time, Charles did look at him, not with actual eyes, and then blinked, and did a double-take.

_What?_

_Is that what you look like? As a man—human, I mean! As a human!_

_I have no idea what I look like, Charles—_

_Oh, my god,_ Charles said, and blinked again, still looking slightly shell-shocked. And then muttered something about divine intervention and self-control, which Erik suspected hadn’t been intended for anyone else to hear.

_Right_. That expressive voice now sounded resolutely focused. Task at hand. Determined. Erik wanted to laugh, and also very much wanted to know precisely what Charles was seeing.

_Right, so, I, er, have a description to work with, now…that ought to, um, help…with us finding your home!...and you’re picking up more, about your childhood, as we stay here, aren’t you?_

_Yes._ Showers of brilliance, tumbling into place. The scent of baking bread. The dusty road through a small village. Laughter, and the continuous siren hum of iron in his thoughts, the soul of the world.

_That ought to continue even after I—after we stop for today. You only needed the prompting; the rest will return. Given time_.

Time. Charles _had_ given him time. His own.

He kind of wanted to cry again.

Charles smiled up at him—up? since when was he taller than those blue eyes?—but didn’t keep talking; the smile looked a little weary, but sincere.

_Are you all right?_

_Oh—I’m only tired. That one was buried rather deeply; I’m not sure you’d’ve ever found it on your own. And there’s some effort involved, sorting out the wolf-memories from the human. You have very, ah, potent sensory input, as a wolf, and—_

_So we’re done for today._

_We don’t have to—_

_You said the memories would keep coming back, on their own, correct?_

_Yes, but more slowly, and I could—_

_Then we’re done for today._

_Oh…all right._ Plus some inarticulate grumbles about Erik and nursery-maid tendencies; but he had the impression that Charles was, shyly, pleased by the concern. Was surprised, and thrilled, to know that Erik cared.

_Come on,_ Charles said, and tugged on his hand, and they surfaced into tangible reality like the first gasp of air after a tidal wave, finding their feet and clinging to each other.

Charles looked at him and laughed, exhausted, exhilarated, beautiful. Erik felt the laughter too, bubbling up inside him, and couldn’t help wagging his tail. He was still a wolf and Charles’s headache was knocking at his skull and somehow the day’d gone from late morning to mid-afternoon, and neither of them had noticed, and Charles put an arm around him and laughed into his fur and the sound felt wonderful.

_I am incredibly hungry._

Now that he thought about it, he was as well. And he’d not been doing the harder work. _You rest. I’ll find us food._

_I can—_

_You can stay here,_ Erik informed him, and jumped to the floor. _I’ll be back in five minutes. And if you put one foot out of bed I’m not playing chess with you tonight._

_That’s just cruel!_ Charles shouted after him, affectionately, only marginally dismayed. _I need books, at least! And bring me the rest of last night’s chicken!_

Erik laughed. Ran off to steal another roasted barnyard fowl for the two of them. And, on the way, reached back with a thought and grabbed the first metal-hasped book he could find, and tossed it in the direction of Charles’s bed.

_That’s an encyclopedia!_ Charles said. And, by the time Erik got back, carefully balancing a metal serving dish full of chicken, tea, and two slices of imported pineapple because Charles did have certain weaknesses and wouldn’t be able to resist the indulgence and would smile again, was sitting up, and cheerfully reading it from the beginning.


	5. Act Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn some things about Charles's less-than-ideal childhood, and declarations of love occur.

Five: _the king turned away, the werewolf followed him/ he stayed close to the king, and wouldn’t go away/ he had no intention of leaving him_

Life at the castle wasn’t perfect. But not for the reasons Erik ever would’ve guessed.

He’d’ve thought, if he had ever thought about it, that he’d grow bored, being confined. That he’d become sick to death with Charles’s boundless optimism, and want to run. That the unresolved mysteries, unraveling at a snail’s pace in his mind, would frustrate them all.

None of that was true. Or not true enough to matter.

He did get irritated with Charles’s insistence on seeing the brighter side of the world. Did sometimes feel the need to run, to feel the wind against his skin and the distant call of wildness in his ears.

But he always told Charles when he was going. And he came back, every time.

He’d seen that look in blue eyes once. Never wanted to see it again.

It hadn’t even been devastation. Only resignation. Understanding. That was worse.

He came home. Every time.

Life at the castle wasn’t perfect, and the imperfection had to do with that mystery, the one that Erik couldn’t solve even as Charles tried to puzzle out his wolfish origin. The reasons why Hank, and the guardsmen, avoided the subject of the Regency, or spoke of the deceased Regent with such hatred, when they thought that Charles wouldn’t hear. Why Raven smiled at her brother, the day that Charles got around to ordering the master bedchamber to be repurposed as an extension of the infirmary.

Why Charles felt the need to apologize, each day he couldn’t unravel Erik’s clouded past any further. As if he thought that Erik would despise him for not doing enough, proclaim the desire to leave, and depart on the spot. With alacrity.

Other moments, small ones. Like the day he’d ventured into the treasury, exploring—he liked to know all the escape routes, all the possible exits, he’d discovered—and had made an offhand comment to Charles, at dinner: _such a hardship it must’ve been, growing up among all this_.

Charles’d looked away, and hadn’t answered. Had smiled, manufactured and brittle as glass blown from a flawed apparatus, and asked Hank about some experimental cerebral measuring techniques, and then excused himself early, claiming he had a headache. He’d been silently in bed, by the time Erik had recovered enough to run up the stairs in his wake.

That’d been two days ago. Charles hadn’t asked him to play chess since, even though they’d just finished a game the night before, one that’d put Erik ahead in wins.

Charles hadn’t asked him not to sleep in the bed, hadn’t asked for space. Hadn’t asked for anything from him.

Raven had looked at him, angry, across swans molded out of bread. The cooks’d been responding to the overall happy mood of late, and were outdoing themselves with fantastical creations.

“What did you say?”

He couldn’t answer. Of course not, not without Charles there to translate his thoughts for everyone else.

The rest of the table’d gone quiet, too. Three-quarters of the royal guardsmen were glaring; Sean put one last forkful of wild boar into his mouth, and then attempted to glare too.

“You asked him about his stepfather,” Raven’d said, unappeased. “Didn’t you? He doesn’t tell anyone about that. He doesn’t—he thinks we don’t know.”

“We _don’t_ know.” Hank, truthful as always.

“We know enough. He doesn’t talk about it. Not with anyone. Maybe someday he will, maybe he never will, but you don’t ask. You never ask. I know you didn’t know. But now you do. So you don’t. All right?”

I didn’t, Erik tried to say. I didn’t mean to—why doesn’t he tell anyone, why can’t he tell you, even you, you’re his sister, and someone should be there, someone should’ve followed him now, should be making certain he’s all right! But he couldn’t talk.

So he’d spun away from the table and raced up the crooked and much-loved staircase and stuck his nose worriedly under a pale arm, where it was covering up closed eyes.

_I’m fine_ , Charles’d said. _It’s only a headache._ And that was true, Erik could tell it was, but it was also a lie.

_Please_ , he’d said, helplessly, _Charles—_

_Just stay here. With me. Let me believe that this is—just stay here._

And Erik had wanted to say more, to ask all the unanswered questions, to beg Charles to ask _him_ , anything, whatever he might need. But Charles _had_ asked, and he’d asked Erik to lie there beside him and be a safeguard against the dark.

He had. And Charles’d fallen asleep, eventually, one arm wrapped around Erik’s shoulders, and the taste of salt and ocean whirlpools in their dreams.

He’d not known how to ask in the morning, either, when Charles’d awakened, determinedly bright-eyed and energetic, and run off half-dressed to meet the Russian envoy and forgotten his coronet of royal office and had to sprint back up the steps to where Erik’d just unearthed it from a stack of parchment on his behalf. Charles’d scratched his ears, and then paused, eyed his own hand in Erik’s fur, almost visibly did some hasty mental rearrangement, grinned mysteriously, and run back downstairs.

Tonight, the world was raining. Water splashed down out of the sky, and turned the courtyard to mud, and the windows to steam.

It’d been a long, and troubled, day. They’d woken up from joined nightmares, distorted slices of Erik’s memories shoving themselves forward in the night. Coins, on a table. Long knives. The taste of metal and blood and despair and failure.

Lightning’d burst across the sky, tearing it apart, and Erik had shivered, inside his fur, and Charles had put both arms around him and thought very hard about hot tea and freshly-baked bread and honey, warmth like sunlight, held up as a shield against the storm.

_Honey_ , Erik’d said, shakily, _really?_ and Charles had shrugged without moving and smiled a little. _When I was very young, and had nightmares, the nursemaid used to give me bits of honeycomb, to make me stop crying. I always wake up positively craving it, even now. How do you feel about honey? Too sweet for you?_

_I…don’t remember._ The words helped. The sensation of Charles holding him in every possible way, concern and lingering mental soreness and enveloping assurance like compassionate waves, helped more.

He pictured young Charles, all bottomless eyes and mischievous hair, licking sticky sweetness from his fingers. Then pictured present-day Charles doing the same. Then tried not to, because Charles was right there and listening and comforting him and, oh god, wrapped around him. In bed.

Desperate, he latched on to another word in that sentence. _Nursemaid?_ He did know it was a common practice in noble households, but couldn’t imagine Charles’s mother not falling in love with her child on the spot.

_Oh, I assure you that it’s very imaginable_. The elegant voice sounded wry, sketched with the ink of long-accepted pain. _My mother simply didn’t know what to do with a child, you see. She loved me, but it was rather in the way one might love a favorite pet, a kitten or a lapdog or—oh, sorry! Er, not a lapdog. Ferret?_

Erik had opened his mouth, closed it, and opted for, _I_ _think I’m a bit large to be your lapdog, Charles_. And, inside those words, others: _I’m sorry._

_Oh,_ Charles’d said, _don’t—I’m all right. And I’m all right if you want to be my lapdog, also, you’re not that heavy and I could have some fun with this, I could brush you and find you a jeweled collar and—_

At which point Erik’d rolled over and sat squarely on his chest, thinking specific and detailed thoughts about what Charles could do with that jeweled collar, and Charles’d started laughing and when the next flare of lightning split the sky in half, neither of them had flinched, or looked around.

He hadn’t seen Charles all afternoon. Treaty negotiations, evidently. Ambassadors who were allergic to dogs. The kitchens smelled of unfamiliar herbs and spices, and Alex had been busy breaking three practice dummies in the jousting yard when Erik’d tried venturing out there. He’d decided that discretion, in this case meaning a retreat behind sturdy stone walls, was advisable. He couldn’t go for a run, unless he wanted to end up wet and muddy. And it was _still_ raining.

The memories’d been coming back, all day, too. Stirred up by the nightmares, and the sound of rain.

A man. Face always ever-so-slightly blurred, as if young Erik—and he was young, he thought, in some of those glimpses of the past—could never see him properly, distorted by terror. Demands: _move this coin, lift that dagger. Good. More. Heavier._

A sick sort of fascination with his transformations: _how does it work? We shall observe you and find out. Strip. Stand in this room_. Doors closing. White-washed walls that smothered all his cries at being left alone.

His mother’s face came back as well. She was dead. He knew she was dead. Remembered not being able to save her, to perform on command. To avoid displeasure.

He hated the faceless man, in his memories, with every inch of his body. Every particle of his soul.

Charles’d stayed with him all day. Not in person, but tangibly there, a soothingly real anchor in his mind. Not calm—Charles _did_ stay with him, through all the remembering, feeling each phantom blow when Erik himself did, and wept with Erik’s pain—but vitally present. Never leaving him alone.

He didn’t know how he’d escaped, or when. Those recollections hovered, tantalizingly, out of reach: himself striking out, biting, fleeing, hurtling metal in his wake. Bolting into the unknown.

_You’re here now_ , Charles said, into his hurricane thoughts. _You’re here with me_. And the storm in his head, if not the one outside, shuddered a bit nearer to tranquility.

He hadn’t seen those blue eyes, not with his own, since noon, when Charles’d snuck out of meetings to run through back hallways and find Erik lying disconsolately over cold damp stone and offer bread and cheese, plain and simple, with none of the oddly-scented spices that the wolf’s nose couldn’t stand.

The greyness of the day had gotten lighter, for those few moments. And he’d been counting the hours until he could be at Charles’s side again.

Currently, the rain lashing the windows and the scent of damp stone and freshly-brewed tea, kindly left by one of the household staff in the bedroom, were making the world feel smaller. More intimate. Built for the two of them alone.

Charles gazed at the tea service longingly, and then ran a hand through his hair, so that it stood up in messy waves. Then shut his eyes.

_Headache?_ Erik said, even though he didn’t have to ask.

“It’s only been a long day.” Charles shrugged out of elaborate court robes, dropping them to the floor, peeling back layers like shed onionskin, left to curl desolately on rough ground. “I could thoroughly devour tea and scones, at the moment. Do you think scones might exist?”

It _had_ been a long day. Erik breathed out, and scuffed nails against the floor. It must’ve been even longer for Charles. Charles, who had remained with him throughout, despite ambassadorial conversations and polite diplomatic fictions and the throb of Erik’s past inside his skull.

Erik’s past wasn’t pleasant. They were both starting to suspect as much.

_It isn’t—_ Charles stopped, bit his lip, pressed fingers to his temple. “It isn’t your fault. You didn’t do any of those things. They were done _to_ you.”

Erik started to answer. Hesitated. Charles was in pain.

And Erik knew what pain felt like. If he’d not reconstructed all of his life, quite yet, he’d rediscovered that much.

Or maybe that was only the feeling in his heart at the moment, seeing the lines around blue eyes.

_Charles_ , he said, finally, _I’m sorry._

_I’m not._ Charles smiled at him, through a mouthful of scone. _You know who you are, or more than you did before. You know—I mean, of course they’re not pleasant memories, or not all of them—but you know something of what happened to you, before this. That’s worth a bit of discomfort, I think._

And that was such a Charles response—truth, over everything, pleasure in knowledge and partially-solved mysteries, regardless of aches and pains acquired along the way—that Erik could only stand there, in awe, affectionately amazed.

Charles put the other half of the scone into his mouth, and then licked his fingers. And that was perfect, too, that was Erik’s Charles, not determinedly regal, poised on a throne—though Charles could and would do that as well when necessity demanded—but unguarded, tired, contented, hair in his eyes and the anticipation of sweetness in his thoughts. The Charles no one else got to see. His.

Charles glanced up, as if he’d heard that thought. Attempted to grin, swallowed that last bite, tried again. _Yes, something like that._

_Eavesdropping, are you?_

_Mmm…maybe. You honestly think I smell delicious?_

_I—you—It’s a wolf thing!_

_Like sugared tea and parchment, you’re thinking. Illuminated manuscripts. I might not mind that one_. Charles grinned at him, ducked into the wardrobe, started looking for a warmer and less decorated shirt, pulling the too-elaborate one off over his head. _Better than wet dog._

_Come here and I’ll make you smell of wet dog,_ Erik retorted, and then, when Charles didn’t emerge from the wardrobe, got up and trotted over there. Charles wasn’t looking, buried in clothing; Erik put a wet nose into his leg, and waited for the satisfying yelp.

Charles jumped, and spun around. Nearly fell over. Grabbed the nearest shirt.

Erik, shocked, forgot everything else, and stared.

_Charles—_

_Erik, don’t—_

_Charles, what happened!_ The scars were all too plain. Old, clearly. Not new. Long-healed tracks of silver, of twisted flesh, of shining snarled skin. They sliced through cinnamon-cloud freckles like deadly comets.

_Please don’t_ , Charles whispered, and dropped his gaze, and Erik had the impression of blue eyes closing, hidden behind shaking hands. Hints of blood and cruelty and fire-heated iron, sizzling around the corners of those memories.

_I don’t—I don’t tell people, Erik, please don’t look at me—_

_Charles, you—_ He never _had_ seen Charles shirtless before. Charles’d always been careful to stay dressed, to sleep in an undershirt, to throw on clothing even before the castle servants came knocking with morning tea and toasted muffins. But Charles had been tired enough to forget, just now, with him. And Erik’d followed him into the wardrobe and made him remember.

_I’m so sorry._

_No, it’s all right_. That mental voice’d regained some measure of stability. Or was trying valiantly for a semblance of the same. _You didn’t know, and I…wasn’t thinking about it. I don’t think about it, really, with you in here._

Of course not. Because he’s not human. Doesn’t count.

_No. Because you’re you. And I trust you._

Such a simple statement. Offered so easily. Erik found himself staring again, for a different reason this time.

_You—Charles, I—I trust you, as well_. True. Charles had saved him. In every way that mattered. _You know that. And you can—you never need to be ashamed of anything. Not with me. You should know that, too._

_You mean that._

_Yes_. With every fiber of his being. Everything he was. He leaned against Charles’s leg again. After a second, thoughtfully, licked the closest hand. Still delicious.

_…I’m not…I don’t…tea and parchment, I think you said?_

Right now, mostly those fingers tasted like cold. _You can tell me anything, if you want to. Or not tell me. But I am here. Whatever you need._

Charles managed a wobbly smile. Pulled on his shirt. Then put his hand back in Erik’s fur. Erik didn’t bother trying to hide the wave of relief, at that.

“Whatever I need…come play chess with me, maybe? For now? While I warm up somewhat?” _I know you’re here. You—thank you._

_For licking your fingers?_

“For everything,” Charles said, and laughed, unevenly. _For being you_. And sat down on the floor by the fireplace, kingly dignity abandoned for tea and scones and bare feet under piles of rich fur and luxurious rugs, Erik curled around him and shedding wolf hair everywhere in support. The fire crackled at them, merrily, sending showers of sparks into the night; even defeated chessmen, to the side of the board, settled in lazily to observe the game.

Charles fed him bits of scone, absentmindedly, and used his shoulder as a pillow, in the post-game euphoria, comfortable.

_That endgame was absolutely brilliant_. He’d certainly never seen it coming.

_Mmm…thank you._

_So you are awake_. And not at all modest about the win, either.

_More or less…_ And Erik had the sense that Charles hadn’t in fact been pondering the game, or his own brilliance. Had, instead, been contemplating something rather different.

_Rematch?_ Unless Charles felt like talking. Erik didn’t ask, but let the question hover at the forefront of his thoughts anyway.

Charles gazed at the fire, watching tongues of flame coil and yearn restlessly up towards the night. Adjusted position, still leaning against Erik’s bulk. _Do you believe that it is a mortal sin to…to take one’s own life?_

_WHAT?!_ He lunged upright. Charles, deprived of canine backrest, fell over into the nest of blankets; lay there blinking at him. _Erik—_

_You are NOT thinking that!_ He jumped. Landed solidly on Charles’s chest, all hundred-plus pounds of wolf-muscle, and flattened himself down, pinning Charles in place. Showed his teeth. Every one of them. Outrage. Shock.

Fear.

_You are not, you AREN’T, and I will sit on you forever if I have to, but you are not going anywhere, Charles, you can’t—you can’t leave me—_

_I’m not—oof, Erik, you’re ridiculously heavy, move your foot—I’m not, I swear—_

_Promise me!_ He did move the foot. Charles needed to breathe.

Charles coughed, inhaled, scowled up at him. “That _hurt_.” _I…promise you I didn’t mean what you’re thinking, at least not now. I—_

_I’m not sorry. What the hell do you mean not now?_

“I’m not lying to you. You can stop growling any time.” _I’m not going to tell you I’ve not thought about it before. Not lately. Years ago. When I was—_ Charles attempted to wiggle free, unsuccessfully. Erik glared. Meaningfully, put a little more weight on him.

_I could make you let me sit up._

_You won’t_. He knew that in his bones. Charles wouldn’t do that. Not to him. Erik himself would, of course, but Charles was a better person than he was.

_Not true._

_Charles—_

_Erik,_ Charles pointed out, as reasonably as if he were having the conversation over a breakfast table and eggs, not trapped between the blankets and the fireplace and a terrifiedly irate wolf, _you’re the one of us vowing to defend my life._

_I will. Even from you, if I have to._

_You don’t have to. I promise._ But there was some other emotion lurking beneath those words. Astonishment, gratitude, a kind of bewildered pleasure: Charles believing, letting himself believe, that Erik cared. That Erik meant the words. Would be there.

_Of course I’ll be there! And so will you. You—said you had thought about—you said it was years ago—_

_It was. Can I sit up, now? Or at least stop lying on the chessmen? I think there’s a bishop skewering my spine._

Erik backed off. Just enough. Charles sat up, winced, fished around on the floor, held up a few chess pieces. “Sorry…”

He wasn’t certain to whom that apology was directed. Or for what.

“Sorry to them. And to you. And my back, I think. That’s going to leave an extremely interesting bruise.”

_I’m sorry. I’m—I didn’t mean—Charles, please talk to me._ In the background, the fire flared up, muttering voiceless trepidation.

“I would’ve anyway, you know. That was why I asked the question. I didn’t expect to be pounced on as a result, I have to admit.” But that was almost a smile, now. In their heads. At the edges of that mobile mouth. _I honestly was asking. I’d like to know what you think. What happens, when we die?_

_I think you shouldn’t be wondering about that,_ Erik retorted, and looped a paw over Charles’s ankle, holding on. Regarded the words, hanging in the firelit air. _I don’t know. I’ve never believed in the Church’s doctrine—well, obviously not—but I’m clearly not a particularly good Jewish person, either. I imagine we simply…stop. An ending. Silence._

_Peace?_

_Not necessarily. Nothingness isn’t the same as peace. But you know that. All that matters is what we do, here and now, to change the world._

_So we should make them good changes. Worthwhile_.

_If we can. Why did you ask about—_

Charles sighed, but it wasn’t a defeated sound. Threadbare and worn, but not worn out. Not yet. _How much do you know about how my father died? My real father, that is._

Erik considered that question. It sounded unrelated, but wouldn’t be; Charles would have a reason for asking that, at this moment. _Only what everyone else knows. It was unexpected—in his sleep?—and you were quite young and your mother married the Regent to protect your inheritance—_

No words, but he had the idea that Charles was laughing, at that, bitter as wild dandelions, or unsweetened coffee, exotic and dark.

_What—_

_Sorry, sorry, it’s only, you used the word protect, there, and I—oh, Erik._ Charles shook his head. Glanced over at the fire, for support. Then back at Erik. The blue eyes shone, clear as stained-glass windows in straying sunlight. _You did ask about my scars…_

And that sentence came with a host of flickering images, red as the firelight, and as cruel to dive into. Hands. Fists. Words: _not MY son, not fit to rule, ruined with books and studying, not a man—too soft, too PRETTY, when you walk around—_ Iron impacts. Letter openers. The fireplace poker. Charles on the floor, and the wash of red again, staining opulent rugs and white skin and shredded clothing. Blood. Not one time. Many.

Erik was very sure someone’d begun shouting, in their heads. Anger, heartbreak, ferocious outraged protectiveness. Love.

Of course it was love.

In their present-day room, someone _was_ shouting at him. Charles.

Charles, here. Not bleeding on the floor.

_You’re going to topple the whole castle, Erik, you’re shaking the foundations, you need to STOP THIS—_

He breathed in. Out. Released it all, all the metal, the nails he could feel humming through the massive fortification, the creaking cookspits in the kitchens, the resonant lumps of iron that’d once been Charles’s own fireplace accessories. Felt Charles in his head, not forcing the calm, simply _being_ , there and present and reassuringly steady. Tea and cozy wool and ancient curling parchment and the startling brightness of that tropical pineapple, sweet tanginess across his tongue.

_I am here_ , Charles said, quietly. _I am still here. And so are you. I’ve never told anyone before. But now I have. I’ve told you._

_Charles_ , Erik breathed, despairingly, disbelieving, not letting himself be convinced precisely because he wanted to be.

_I think I love you_ , Charles said, and then laughed, astonished. Weightless and clear as the light, running over his skin. Amazed. Overjoyed. _You were angry for me. You’re here. For me. I can tell you these things. I can play chess with you and lick chocolate off my fingers and tell you everything, and you’ll hear me, and you can understand. I love you._

_I love you_. Beyond any doubt. Incontrovertibly true. Like the answering heat in blue eyes, at the recognition.

Charles reached out and put both arms around him and rested his cheek in Erik’s fur, and Erik wanted to weep, for so many reasons. Because Charles was here. Scarred and wounded and lonely, and holding him. And he, Erik, equally scarred and wounded, but not lonely, not now, not with those arms clinging to his neck, couldn’t even hold Charles in return. He wasn’t human.

_Yes you are. You’re merely…sort of…a wolf-shaped human. You’re still you. The person I love._

_You love me,_ Erik said, continuing to marvel at the words, and Charles gave a watery laugh, and held on more tightly.

_Yes, I do. And you love me. And we’ll figure this out. I’m not letting go of you._

_Don’t,_ Erik agreed, and felt the answering smile. _And yes, I do. I love you. Charles?_

_Yes?_

_Was there…you started to…you asked what I knew about your father. Earlier. Not the Regent, your real father. How did he die?_

_As long as I’m telling you everything, you mean?_

_I—only if you want to. I’d like to know—_ He would. Wanted to know all the secrets, all the hidden facets that glinted up from dark corners. The memories Charles’d never shared with another soul. Until now.

_—but you don’t have to. If you’d rather not._

_No, it’s fine, I’d meant to tell you anyway, that’s why I asked._ The blue eyes met Erik’s gaze, peaceful as replanted earth, in the faded wreckage of an ancient battlefield. Flowers blooming, under the rain. And Charles didn’t let go.

“He’s buried properly, in the crypt, you know. With all the other kings and queens. All due ceremony befitting a head of state. We had to bribe the Church with an obscene amount of money, you understand.” _My father was never suited to kingship. I’m not, either, of course, but I at least have my abilities—_ A shrug, setting that thought aside for later. _He found it…too hard. Too much. And we, my mother and I, we couldn’t make him smile any longer, after a while._

_Charles—_

_He hung himself,_ Charles said. _In his bedroom. He was thinking about it very methodically, too, the entire time._

_You HEARD—_

_I heard everything. I didn’t have good control, then—too young—and the hearing would sometimes come and go, and I couldn’t influence people, not easily, not from any distance. But I always was good at picking up clarity of purpose. He was excruciatingly clear._

Erik couldn’t even speak. Couldn’t imagine what Charles must’ve felt. He’d seen men die by hanging, men who’d also displeased that featureless dream-figure in some fashion. Could find that sight among his recovered memories. It’d not been a lovely one.

_It’s not especially lovely to experience, either. Erik, I don’t need you to feel sorry for me. It was a long time ago. And I am all right, now. I just…thank you for letting me tell you._

_Charles,_ he got out, once he could talk. _Thank_ _YOU. For giving me—everything_. His own past. A place from which to stand, to look out at the future. The other halves of fresh-baked scones. The safe harbor of arms in the night.

That incredible, extraordinary, battle-bruised heart. The never-questioned certainty that he, Erik, could be worthy of this depth of trust.

_Of course you are_ , Charles murmured, assurance like confident mortar, shoring up all the fortifications. Incredible, Erik thought one more time, very distinctly.

And then he discovered something else new, namely the fact that he could _hear_ Charles blushing. Could feel it in his head, like the rosy glow of sunrise, the scent of spiced apples and beaten cream.

_I’m not really that heroic a person._ Charles sounded a bit apologetic. _I think mostly I’ve just…I’ve always been lonely. That was—_

_That’s not why. Or that’s not all of why. You’re the least selfish person I’ve ever met. Don’t think I don’t know where your personal allowance goes._ He did. Hank’d mentioned, casually, over breakfast, needing better diagnostic instruments for wounded new arrivals, the ones seeking refuge after tumultuous exits from their homes; the instruments’d turned up a few weeks later, and Charles had, seemingly coincidentally, not ordered the new volume of Thomas Chestre’s romances after all, even though he’d mentioned looking forward to its appearance.

_I am, though_ , Charles murmured. _I do still want that book, you know. And I want you. I was—I was afraid, today. And a little bit—horribly, self-centeredly, glad, that you didn’t remember EVERYTHING, not yet, because if you do, once you do, you might—you won’t need me, you won’t want—_

_Charles, you—that has to be the most idiotic thing you’ve ever said!_

_…what?_

_I’ve just told you I love you! Do you honestly think I WANT to go anywhere?!_ But Charles did think that, he could feel it, a blurry dull smoke-smudge down in the space beyond rationality, where frightened illogical convictions lived. Erik, seeing that, wanted to hunt down every last uncaring member of Charles’s family. Preferably with his teeth.

_Erik, you—I love you_ , Charles said, and laughed, just once, shaking his head, incredulous, elated. _You are—you can be my family. Now._

Erik thought about this for a second. Said, _Yes!_ and then, a heartbeat later, _Charles?_

_Yes?_

_You should know that if it weren’t pouring rain, and the middle of the night, I’d go out and find you wild honeycomb._

And Charles laughed again, silvery and imperfect and joyful as the rain outside, encompassing the world.


	6. Act Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for some revelations about Erik's past. Also some telepathic first-time sex, and hurt/comfort. And, er, sorry in advance about the cliffhanger ending, though it's not as bad as it _could've_ been. More soon!

Six: _somehow or other, that certain knight had mistreated the werewolf/ and the werewolf wanted his revenge;/ and so the matter rested until the feast was over…_

Not everything changed, in the aftermath of the revelation. In some ways, nothing changed at all, as if the words had been there all along, as if they’d been voiced in every touch, every chess move, every sideways glance, eyes meeting eyes, fingers brushing fur. As if they’d always been saying _I love you_ , and all the other moments’d just been untranslated expressions of that fundamental truth.

Some things changed. Small things. Or they’d seem small to anyone else.

Charles pushed up his sleeves a bit higher, revealing more skin, in the heat. Looked at Erik, when he did, and smiled. Let himself be touched by other people a bit more.

Erik had never noticed that fact, before. He found himself shocked that he’d only realized now, in the wake of the difference. Charles had touched people previously, of course, he’d seen that, an encouraging pat on the arm or a hand on a shoulder, but only ever as the instigator, the one reaching out, the one in control.

But this time Charles didn’t flinch when Hank, jumping jubilantly around the lab in the wake of some inexplicable scientific progression, flung an arm around him and pulled him over to the workbench. Didn’t take a step back, subtle repositioning, when Alex, triumphant after successfully breaking three practice dummies with minimal collateral damage, punched a fist into the air beside his cheek.

He wondered, once, whether he hadn’t ever noticed because Charles had never flinched from _him_. Charles, lying in bed beside him, drowsy and sleep-warm, one arm over his shoulders and calm breath in his fur, had yawned, and repositioned an elbow, and thought something that was _yes_ and _love you_ and _I_ _really like blueberries, perhaps we can have pie again tomorrow night…_ and Erik’s heart performed a complicated little twirl, all love and tenderness and painfully scintillant joy.

Two days ago, they’d gone swimming. The day’d been crystalline and bright, one last unexpected glimpse of summer sunlight in the face of year’s end, and when Raven’d suggested the trek to the lake, everyone had enthusiastically agreed. Sean and Alex, and a petite woman named Angel who, Erik’d been informed, could set him on fire with a breath if she so chose, stripped off clothing immediately; Raven turned herself into some sleek and shining amphibian and coiled sneakily around unsuspecting legs. The splashes of water, of laughter, hung in the air and glittered like decoration.

Charles hadn’t plunged in right away with the rest of them. Had, instead, shoved up his sleeves, settled on the shore, toes in the water. Erik’d paused in the act of shaking water from his coat all over a very deserving Raven—she’d surfaced to splash Hank and grin—and didn’t ask. He knew why.

No one else asked, either. Evidently this was routine. No expectations, no one making demands for Charles to peel off the supportively concealing shirt and join the exuberant games.

Erik met his eyes, for a split second. Didn’t ask, again, even though he wanted to. Not if Charles couldn’t say yes.

Charles half-smiled, invisible gratitude like hot liquid chocolate on a frozen night. Used one naked foot to send a gentle tidal wave of water Erik’s direction.

Erik smiled back, thought _I love you_ , and then found himself briefly distracted by the need to growl at Raven for tugging on his tail.

Charles, back on the bank, bit his lip, took a breath, got up. Pulled off his shirt, tossed it over his head, dove into the water, one clean elegant sweep of pale skin and golden freckles and silvery scars.

The splashing took a second to die down, but when it did, every pair of eyes in the lake ended up fixed on the point where all that skin had disappeared.

Sean opened his mouth. Then yelped, mostly likely because Raven’d kicked him under the water, and shut it. More staring.

Charles resurfaced, hair clinging wetly to his face. Glanced around, embarrassedly happy, and then offered, “Did you know we have some positively fascinating aquatic flora on the lakebed, I wonder what adaptations it’s had to make to survive in that location…” Hank said “Really?” and Raven rolled her eyes and Sean and Alex went back to trying to drown each other, though they did toss the occasional curious glances back at the scars.

Charles had looked at Erik, a hint of shyness evident even through the newfound confidence; Erik shouted _I love you!!_ loudly enough to resound through the universe, and Charles laughed, wondering and brilliant and weightless, treading water, and answered _I know_.

When they’d finally gotten out, dripping and pleasantly tired and shivering at the lowering sun, Raven’d hung back to walk beside Charles and Erik, wandering homeward. Had put both arms around her brother, and hugged him, not speaking, for a while.

And then she’d knelt down and hugged Erik. Too tightly, but he’d understood.

She’d smiled at them, started to speak, shaken her head, and dashed away; Erik’d glanced up at Charles’s face, and leaned most of his weight against the closest sturdy leg. Charles tried to shake soaked hair out of his eyes, failed, and nudged Erik with the leg, in return.

He thought _love you_ again now, remembering; not verbally, only wordless affirmation. They were standing together inside Erik’s head anyway; no words necessary, between them. Their bodies were touching too, of course, folded up in Charles’s— _their_ —plush tower of opulent bed. It’d been an icy morning, winter arriving with a howl, and Charles had put one foot on the stone floor and made an _oh-seriously-my-toes-are-not-happy_ expression, and Erik’d promptly tackled him back into the pillows, and tugged the nearest eiderdown over those toes for good measure.

_Oh, please. I’m not that fragile._

_No, but you shouldn’t have to be cold. Not when you’re trying to—while you’re—_

_Exploring?_

_Excavating, perhaps. I am sorry that my head is…difficult._

_It’s fine. Challenges, you know..._ Charles grinned at him, invisibly. The otherworld, around them, got correspondingly brighter, and the air tasted of pineapple cream and tropical flowers _. I do like them. One more reason I quite like you._

_I like YOU, Charles. Despite the fact that a hibiscus tree’s just bloomed behind my head. Where are we?_

_I’m making it up as I go. I like the colors. I wonder whether we could get these to thrive here, if we attempted to cross-pollinate with—_

Erik didn’t roll his eyes, because he didn’t technically have eyes, here, but he was absolutely certain Charles got the idea.

_All right, yes, thank you…did you recall anything new, after that last time? I was afraid to push much harder; I don’t want to hurt you, and I do think, given the nudge, that your memories will continue returning on their own, incrementally…_

_I want to know._

_I would, as well_. Charles was holding his hand, shorter broader fingers resting snugly in Erik’s own longer ones. So dissimilar, but a perfect fit, all the same. _Here…think about your childhood. About the lovely times._

_We’ve done that._

_I know. Now…think about your house. Your home. As clearly as you can, the last time you remember seeing it._

He tried. The memory felt like security. Like lazy summer afternoons, and the cool shadowy welcoming presence of the forge in his father’s shop—a blacksmith? he thought, surprised—and the strength in his mother’s hands.

The memory changed. Shifted. A particular day. The last day. Men on horseback. Swords and crossbows. His father trying to protect them. Himself, trying to protect them as well, with all his childhood strength. A laugh, as swords twisted in owners’ hands and arrow-bolts flew awry: _why do you think we’re here? We’re here for you._

All the details he’d once known and forgotten in the haze of terror. Everything Charles could uncover, in his mind. Each seemingly insignificant snippet of experience, like the incongruous chirp of concerned birdsong in the trees.

 _Good_ , Charles murmured, because of course those blue eyes were there with him, compassionately shaping the memories into clues. _Anything else? Who was it, who came for you? Do you recall a name?_

_I can’t…_

_It’s all right. Here, breathe for a second. With me. You’re here, with me._

_I know_. The memory, released, shivered and settled into its proper location, another piece of rescued timeline. Charles leaned their shoulders together, and the hibiscus tree reappeared, cheerfully absurd, a short distance away.

 _A name_ , Erik conceded, after a few seconds of the undemanding calm. _There was a name, I think. Someone…something Germanic. I don’t know…_

 _One more try._ Charles dove back into his mind, with the joyous ease of a swimmer in deep and welcoming water.

Erik’d never thought of himself as welcoming. Wasn’t certain he wished to be.

_You’re not, believe me. Not to anyone else. Hank is actively terrified of you._

_But you aren’t._

_Of course not._

_I love you,_ Erik said, and meant it.

_Yes. Which is why you are, in fact, precisely welcoming. To me. Oh—here—sorry, this is rather complex, might hurt a bit—_

_Do your worst, Charles._

_No. Only my best, with you._ The fleeting sensation of a smile; and then the sense of being pushed, Charles exerting power, pressure building up inside Erik’s head. Excavations, under the lakebed, burrowing beneath years or months or weeks of pain and terror and blood and guilt, accretions long hardened into an implacable barricade. Defense. Self-protection. Sealing harmful memories away where they’d not be seen.

Charles paused to catch his breath.

Erik, standing there beside him in the underwater light of the unreal landscape, thought, _you don’t need to breathe, here,_ and then stopped, and thought again. _It’s metaphorical, isn’t it? Is this hurting you?_

 _Yes and no_. Charles put steadying hands on nonexistent knees, bent over, breathed. The air around them tasted vaguely like pure cinnamon, not diluted enough by sugar; anxiety, Erik thought, Charles wanting to be positive about the difficulty, for Erik’s sake, but concerned as well, spice spiking through the sweetness.

_Your mind is made of bloody iron, you know._

_Well…appropriate, perhaps?_

_Oh, entirely. And it’s lovely. The way you feel the world, all around you…it’s like gold, like a heartbeat, like starlight in your veins, isn’t it? And it loves you, in return. Do you know, I imagine you could probably fly, if you wanted to. Fantastic._

_I…_ He couldn’t quite answer. In a few short sentences, Charles’d transformed his power from a tool forged with regret and rage into an instrument of beauty. Possibilities unfolding like sunbeams.

 _Yes…_ Charles was smiling. Those eyes, looking up into his, were very wide and clear and endlessly dark blue. Summer skies, at the moment between sunset and nightfall.

_Oh, Erik, you say such beautiful things to me._

He could’ve grumbled _you weren’t meant to hear that_ or _still not poetic no matter what you think_ or _I can’t even picture myself flying anyway, how preposterous would THAT look?_ but he didn’t say any of those things, in the end. Only looked at Charles and said _You ARE beautiful_.

Charles blushed, pinkness swirling outward into clouds all around them in the air. Still plainly not used to hearing that sentiment expressed; Erik would just have to say it more frequently, then. He wasn’t used to saying it either, but now he _had_ found someone in his life to call beautiful, and he was going to. Unashamedly. As often as he could.

And Charles smiled again, cool and refreshing as flavored ice in sticky heat. Touched his hand. _I’d never think you were ridiculous for trying to fly._

_You’d jump off rooftops alongside me._

_Of course I would. And you’d catch me._

_I always will._

_I know._ Another momentary squeeze of fingertips. _I think I could approach this differently, you know…_

_…are we still talking about flying?_

Laughter. Raspberry wine and dandelion fluff across his fingertips. _About your memories. Try to think of something else. Something you enjoy. As a distraction._

Erik raised telepathic eyebrows. Pictured Charles in bed, that morning, tangled up in blue satin sheets and embroidered coverlet, every bit of fabric wanting to get close to all that skin. Imagined easing back the sheets, one by one, exposing the treasure-trove of freckles and then touching each one, because he could, because he had hands.

He’d never run those hands over Charles in person, not yet, but here in their heads thought was more or less deed, and Charles gasped, eyes suddenly enormous. _Erik—_

_You did say something I’d enjoy._

_Yes, but I can’t concentrate—_

_Enjoyably so?_ He wondered what the freckles would taste like, if they’d be ginger and nutmeg and cream to his tongue. Somewhat impressively, at this point, Charles’s shirt disappeared.

_Erik!!_

_I didn’t do that!…did I?_ Not that he was sorry about it if he had.

_…oh…well, no, YOU didn’t. I, on the other hand…might’ve inadvertently…it’s still your fault, I normally have better control over my own projections than—you think very forceful thoughts about me!_

_Would you like one more?_

_Would I—_

_Here, in here, I could kiss you,_ Erik said, very softly, looking down into blue eyes, inches from his own.

The world turned itself inside out, incandescent with joy. Sparkled, everywhere, golden-hued and coruscating, shivering with the force of Charles’s _YES!_

Even the ground—what ground? Erik thought, bemused, they were in a champagne-bubble space of delight—quaked with desire.

 _Sorry!_ Charles said, and laughed again, and every particle of everywhere laughed too, elated. _I might be a bit excited at the idea…_

_You did say I ought to think of something distracting, did you not?_

_Distracting for you, not for me! But yes—!!_

Charles kissed like the beginning of the world. Of every possible world. Like pineapple wine and the electric crackle of thunderstorms, and maybe the rain frolicked around them in delight, or maybe that was all the happiness, beginning at the touch of those warm lips and radiating inward through his bones and outward to the stars.

 _I do love you being poetic_ , Charles murmured, laughing again, still kissing him, hands sliding up along his back, pulling him closer, and Erik said _I’ll show you poetic_ and didn’t even care that the statement made no sense, because he had one hand in Charles’s hair and one holding Charles against him, and when Charles sighed and tipped that head back and melted into his arms Erik wanted to shout all the damn poetry in the world into the air.

Maybe he could write sonnets to the freckles. All of them. Each one.

_I love you._

_I love you!_

_Yes!!_ and that one came together, and so did they.

Quite a long time later, Erik sat up enough to look at Charles, lying comfortably atop him in the tall grass, and said, amused, _Was that a sufficiently enjoyable distraction?_ and then, _Grass?_

_…mmm? Oh…yes, and yes. I like the way it feels, against my skin. Do you mind?_

_No._ He liked it, too. Maybe it was the wolf-instinct, the love of open spaces to roam, or maybe it was only Charles’s contentment, soaking into his bones.

_Good, then._

_…so…we have just had sex, in your mind, outside in a field?_

_Yes?_

_All right._ He put both arms back around Charles, because he could. Felt Charles curl up more securely into his hold, in response, drowsy and satisfied and warm.

_You feel lovely._

_You ARE lovely._ It wasn’t exactly like having physical bodies—or, rather, it was like having exactly as much of their bodies as they were thinking about at the time—but it was something. He got to hold Charles. Got to feel that solidly happy weight beside him.

_You are…exceedingly distracting. And I love you for that._

_And I love you. Charles?_

_Hmm?_

_Distracting, you said. You weren’t—were you—looking for—while we were—_

_What? No, of course not! I couldn’t’ve focused on anything else if I’d wanted to. Which I didn’t. I wanted YOU._

Erik found himself inexplicably relieved by that—he hadn’t honestly thought that Charles would be giving the moment anything less than his full attention, but someplace in the back of his mind he must’ve been wondering—and also a tiny bit proud of himself, for keeping all of that attention. He’d been a _good_ distraction.

_Yes, you are._

_Thank you. So are you._ He hesitated to ask, but he did hate leaving missions unfinished. And he wanted to know. Had to find out who he was. _Are you…did you want to try looking now? It might be easier…_

 _…with you this relaxed?_ Charles sighed; Erik felt the drift of the exhale, over his incorporeal skin. _It would be. But…I don’t want…I’d like this moment to only be about us. You, and me. Is that…_

 _Of course that’s all right!_ He kissed the closest eyebrow, because it was within reach, because that comment’d sounded too wistful, because Charles needed to be kissed. Needed to know that Erik wanted _him_ , not his assistance or his usefulness or his abilities. Reassurance. Always.

Charles didn’t quite say anything, but a whisper of recently-arrived tension might’ve crept away, between that heartbeat and the next.

 _Grass?_ Erik tried, a little forlornly. _Really?_

 _Oh…well…not just any grass, in fact. We’re in a fairly specific place, or perhaps memory’d be more accurate. Behind the main house, up the hill…I know you’ve only ever seen it in autumn, but in late summer it’s…_ Words dissolved into images; they both watched younger Charles stretch out in the embrace of the field and the breeze, sunlight sliding lazily down to butter all the stalks with gold. Younger Charles was rather small, and built mainly of awkward elbows and legs, but had the same irreverent hair and liquid-sapphire eyes, and also, naturally, a book in one hand, though he’d paused for a minute to simply lie back and ponder the scampering clouds, heedless of the visible ink-blot of the morning’s bruises on one arm.

_You look happy._

_I was. At least at that moment._

_Are you…can you be…please be happy here._ In this moment. Please.

Charles sat up, and met his eyes, and smiled. _I am_.

Erik found himself smiling in return. Because it was true.

He’d made Charles happy. He could make Charles happy. Sometimes that thought still astounded him, in a deep-down hesitant cavern of his soul. He, Erik, as imperfect and angry and flawed as he was, could be the one to coax a smile into jewel-colored eyes in place of the insidious dullness of self-doubt. Could be there to lick bare skin and scars after a tentative first plunge into the lake. How had he ever made it here, to the place where he could be so honored, so unbelievably fortunate, to be the person trusted by those eyes?

 _Erik_ , Charles said, very quietly, _you’re worth trusting. I know_.

He would be. For Charles, he couldn’t be anything else.

Charles smiled again, slightly amused. _Besides, you trust me with yourself, as well. We are in your head, after all, more or less. You’ve let me in. And since you do trust me, with this, to help you…what do you think of gingerbread villages?_

_…what?_

_For the yuletide grand reception? Next week? Centerpieces for the banquet? Would that be practical?_

_Probably…not?_ Not that impracticality’d be a deterrent. Why were they discussing gingerbread, again?

 _I do enjoy playing with my food_. Charles accompanied this relatively innocuous statement with an exceptionally scandalous image involving Erik and fresh cream, then widened sapphire eyes innocently at him when Erik choked on his nonexistent next breath.

_In any case, do you think you might be able to assist with the displays? We’ll need proper stands._

_I…if you’d like…I suppose I can. Why are you asking this now? Do you have some sort of yuletide bedroom preferences of which I ought to be aware?_

Laughter like crisp apples, this time. _Certainly not! Though I’d not be opposed to attempting this in the snow, next time, at least in here…but no, I was only trying to divert your attention, long enough for me to find this—_

The memories exploded like black powder in the stillness. A rush of motion, shrieking iron, flying objects, a whirlwind of pain. Escape/flight/fear/rage/freedom—and despair, as the full moon came and went and nothing of him changed and the blood-taste never left his mouth. His jaws closing on flesh, his metal, called by his pain, skewering skin and bone. Himself not looking back as he ran. A name, at the center of the maelstrom, the deadly eye of the storm.

Schmidt.

Klaus Schmidt. The nightmare had a face. A label, now. And Erik had a goal.

The grass had gone. And the sky was very dark. The ground, if it was still ground, was red. Dark red, like drying blood, seeping sluggishly from ugly wounds.

 _Erik—_ Charles didn’t sound afraid. That was surprising enough, after what they’d both just seen in his mind, to make him pause.

_Erik, I know. I can see it all, too. And I am sorry. I know it was a bit—abrupt—_

_Not precisely the word I’d choose_. He didn’t mean the reply to sound so bitter. But he was bitter. He was Erik Lehnsherr, the child of a village blacksmith and a woman who’d sung so beautifully that neighboring towns would turn out to hear her on market days, and he’d been taken and twisted and tortured into a shape that’d once been natural, all for one man’s sick desire to toy with power.

He’d not been the only one. He had those memories, as well. Schmidt had loved his experiments, after all. Erik’d just been the only one to escape, made too powerful by his rage, given a moment’s carelessness by a guard with thoughtlessly purchased metal decorations on his tunic.

The memories burned. Fresh and raw all over again, dragged up into the light.

_I’m so sorry—you did want to know, we both did, and I couldn’t—it had to be now, while you weren’t noticing, so that I could—_

_I know._

Charles gazed around, at the agonized wasteland. Said, a bit helplessly, _my grass…_

_Your grass is not relevant, Charles!_

Charles swallowed. Didn’t take a step back, despite the sudden change of expression, in the depths of those eyes. Answered, instead, fearless and hurting, _I’d hoped it might continue to be._

 _I—_ He stopped. Looked around. A brutally recognizable fortress loomed, viciously outlined in the distance. He could think about it in more detail, bring it closer, walk through those gates and go inside. Could find the coins, the daggers, the potions he’d been fed to trigger the change. He knew all those details so intimately. He’d spent so much time there, after all.

And then, a thought out of nowhere at all: he’d spent too much time there. Too much time already.

It was his own thought, not Charles’s. Charles would’ve said the words in a very different tone.

Charles wasn’t beside him. Wasn’t next to him, now. Not gone, not completely. But withdrawn. Drawing _away_. Remote.

Erik, alone in the ruins of their created landscape, panicked.

Had he hurt Charles, somehow? Of course he had, he _knew_ he had, that wasn’t a question. The question was only how badly so.

Invisibly, he thought. Emotionally, internally, maybe even physically: Erik’s cataclysmic upheaval of their shared world must’ve reverberated in his head. And Charles did get headaches, did feel physical strain from the telepathic exertion. He knew that. He did know that.

He’d promised that Charles could always trust him.

In the background, Schmidt’s lair faded and dwindled. Erik shouted _Charles!!_ and barely noticed the shifting scenery. _Charles, please, please be all right, please don’t let me have—where are you, I love you, I’m sorry, please come back or don’t if it’ll hurt you but please tell me where to look to find you—_

 _I’m over here_. Distant, but present. A signal fire on a mountain. An outstretched hand across a battlefield. Suggestions of potential recuperation, a bubbling spring, vibrant and clear and renewing the world.

Charles was sitting on the edge of what appeared to be a crater, desolate and otherworldly. One hand played with pale red rocks, idly. Not serene, or still.

He didn’t look up, when Erik tumbled onto terrified knees beside him. _Charles…?_

 _It’s all right._ A rock went sailing into the crater. Bounced twice, defying gravity, then found a home.

_It’s not._

_It will be. You didn’t mean to hurt me. And you didn’t, not really, at least not the way you were thinking, just now. I’ll have a decently-sized headache, in a bit. I’ve felt worse_. A second rock followed the first. Light, from no discernible source, picked out one old scar, disappearing up under Charles’s sleeve from his elbow. Just for Erik to see.

He swallowed, or tried to. Some of Charles’s rocks must’ve made their way into his throat. His heart.

_Is this…are we on…the moon? With the rocks, and the…_

_No. It’s only a dry lake bed_. Charles started to toss another rock, and Erik put out a hand and caught those fingertips in his own, and felt them begin to tremble.

_Charles, I’m so sorry._

_Please don’t leave me—_

_No! No, of course not, never, not for him, not for anything—I love you, Charles, I always will, you saved me—you’re saving me now_.

The blue eyes flickered up, momentarily, at that. Then back down.

 _Charles, please_ , Erik whispered, and held that cold hand, and set his own other hand on the lonely ground, and imagined grass, tall and lush and verdant, the scents of summer and hay. Everywhere. All around.

After an endless second, he felt fingers squeeze his, brief and not quite laughing. _I think perhaps you can stop now…_

He looked. Green, as far as either of them could see. Blanketing the world in a moment’s contentment. Filling up every corner of their infinite space. Maybe he had been a bit overzealous. He didn’t regret it.

_You like grass._

_I…like you._ Another small squeeze. _I love you. And your overzealous grass. You made this for me._

_Anything, for you. I won’t leave you. I’m not ever going to leave you. I’m not—I like seeing you smile, Charles. And I’m sorry._

Charles did smile, then. Shaky, frayed around the edges, but true. _I know. I’m sorry, too. I overreacted a bit, I think. I just—_

_I know. It’s all right. We’re all right. Together._

_Yes._

_You—you did say you had a headache. Can I take care of you? Please?_

_You can kiss me. Please._

_Can I?_

_Yes._

In the wake of the kiss, still tasting pineapple tea and saltwater optimism, Erik ran a hand through Charles’s hair. Marveled at the feel of it, all excited around his fingers. He loved the hair. Being able to touch the hair.

 _Mmm_ , Charles said, and tipped his head into the caress, a little wearily. _Thank you._

 _Don’t—wait, you are in pain, aren’t you._ Not a question. _Is this hurting you, us staying here? Like this?_

 _You’re worth it._ Which meant yes.

_I love you. And you should let us wake up now._

_I should, yes…_

_Charles…_

_All right._ A nonphysical breath, the spun-sugar sensation of a kiss, and the world shimmered, dissolving into watercolor reality again.

Erik opened his eyes. Pushed himself up on an elbow. Straightened a complaining knee. And then, shocked, realized that he _had_ elbows, and knees, and human eyes.

_Charles—!!_

Charles, lying in the heap of pillows, opened his eyes, too, and didn’t bother to form words, only let the cloudburst of startlement and joy sweep ecstatically over them both.

_Charles, what—how—_

_I don’t know! I don’t know, I didn’t do it, I—some sort of resonance, perhaps, the mind can be a terribly powerful force and we were creating several rather intense sensations—_ those thoughts went scurrying away down a scientifically practical path, flashes of concepts, sympathetic morphology and transitive properties and kinetic memory, while the rest of Charles’s attention spun merrily towards one very clear idea of how much he’d like to unscientifically appreciate the result.

 _YES_ , Erik agreed, emphatically, but there was something wrong, now, too much delight, overwhelming, destabilizing, and the world spun and twisted and flipped end over end without warning, and all his perceptions doubled and collapsed in on themselves.

Pain. Reshaping. The change.

Wolf-form. Again.

He wanted to howl at the world. Frustration. Anger. The sense that he’d been cheated somehow. Of course he had been. Earlier. By the man in his nightmares. Schmidt.

Charles stared at him. Blinked. Several times. Then squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, and said, “Erik?” as if he thought that might change anything at all.

_Still a damned wolf, Charles._

_Er…yes. Yes, you are. But…not still…not exactly…_

_Not exactly human, either!_

_No, but…this is promising, Erik, believe me, it is. Not going to say it’s not disappointing—_ a very slight mental blush, but enough to show how badly Charles was sharing his frustration _—but obviously there IS a means of getting you back to your human form. We simply have to work out what that is._

Simply. As if it was.

_Oh—poor choice of words, then. But, Erik—we DID do something. And I felt—whatever he—Schmidt—whatever he did to you, to trap you in this form, it’s artificial. Outwardly imposed. I could tell that. And if he can do it—_

_—then we can undo it?_ Hope. Hope, possibly, potentially, at last.

 _Yes._ To both.

_Charles, I love you._

_And I love you. Forever._

_How’s your headache?_ He could tell even before voicing the question. _Here—_ Charles did keep painkillers, opiates, in a desk drawer; he hated taking them, Erik knew, but he could feel precisely how badly Charles was hurting at the moment, so that wasn’t even a discussion. He spared a thought to be glad that Charles’s desk drawers had metal handles, too. As if they’d been made for times like these.

 _As if you’re meant to be here_ , Charles agreed, and accepted the inevitable, with some reluctance. _Thank you._

_Water?_

_Please_.  “Schmidt,” Charles said out loud, thoughtfully, after swallowing; and then went very quiet.

_What is it?_

“Only…I think I’ve heard the name, before. Can’t remember where, or when, but I know I know it…” Dissatisfaction, the flavor of burnt porridge, followed the annoyed expression. Erik wanted to smile, or to tease Charles about the sensory associations, but he couldn’t quite manage either.

Charles couldn’t know the man in Erik’s nightmares. Couldn’t be associated with all that cruelty. That wasn’t possible. It _wasn’t_.

 _I don’t know him_ , Charles ventured, into his suddenly chaotic thoughts. Unafraid. Open. Truthful. _I only recognize the name. From a letter, perhaps, or a petition, or someone mentioning him…I haven’t got a face, or any impressions at all, to go with the words._

Letters. Stray thoughts. Of course that made sense.

If Charles had been hurt at all by Erik’s momentary unvoiced suspicion, he hid it well. Erik offered _I’m sorry_ anyway, sincerely so.

Charles might’ve smiled, just a little; and invisible lips brushed over his, the phantom outline of a kiss, comprehension and affection like the tumble of autumn leaves in the wind.

 _I think it might’ve been—oh, I know!_ Off the bed. Over to the desk. Back, before Erik’d even had time to object or to feel deprived. “Here.” Charles brandished a piece of paper in his direction. “I _knew_ I’d read it somewhere. This is…er, well, actually, it’s the list Raven makes for me every year about who’s attending the grand holiday reception, and the order of precedence, and all of those ridiculous rules of etiquette, like whether a knight outranks a baronet—”

_Does he?_

_I have no idea._

_In some very specific ways, you realize, you’re a terrible monarch._

_Yes, I’m aware. I do like to think my good qualities make up for that, though_. Charles paused to grin at him. All the hair was tumbling into his face, and the blue eyes sparkled against the greyness of the clouds outside, and a less traditional feudal overlord couldn’t’ve existed. Erik loved every bit of him.

“In any case,” Charles resumed, and stuck his toes under Erik’s bulk for warmth, “she includes brief notes about each of the attendees. In this case, a person going by the name of Lord Sebastian Shaw.”

_Not quite seeing the relevance, Charles._

“I’m not done talking. Shaw isn’t his original name. Nor does he in fact possess any actual title, at least none that all my agents plus Raven’s fearsome talents could discover. He did, however, request permission to settle just inside our borders, four years before I inherited the, ah, all of this. And the name he was using, when he arrived here, was…”

_…Schmidt._

_Golden Star of the Order of the Garter for you._

_Why is he coming to this year’s grand reception? If he’s been here for several years, and you’ve never met him?_

_I’ve no idea about that either. I think we ought to ask him, don’t you?_

_Did_ he think so? Erik didn’t move, because that would’ve meant vacating his foot-warmer duties, but he felt himself tense, the thought singing in his veins like the whisper of iron, the promise of revenge. To meet the man who’d done this to him…The tapestries on the walls, the ones on metal hooks, quivered as if in the grip of strong winds, and fell silent again.

“It may be a coincidence…” Charles toyed with the bit of parchment, worrying it around in pensive fingers. The opiates were beginning to work; some of the pain had gone quieter, in their heads. Correspondingly, Charles’s thoughts felt fractionally less focused, cushioned with fluffy wool. He was continuing to try to talk, though. Naturally. “But I’d rather not trust in coincidence.” _Do you think he’s here for you?_

 _Why else?_ He couldn’t think of any other reason. If Schmidt—Shaw—truly had been avoiding court for all those years, there was no sense to his emergence now. Nothing else’d changed. Nothing new. Only Erik, here at Charles’s side.

 _We’ve not exactly kept you a secret,_ Charles agreed, a bit ruefully. _Should’ve thought of that sooner, but by now everyone’s had time to tell the story. We haven’t been advertising you, of course, but you are rather unique, you know._

From anyone else, that would’ve sounded patronizing. From Charles, it was genuine.

 _If he comes here_ , Erik said, very calmly, _I may have to kill him_.

“Oh, Erik…” Charles set the list down on a helpful pillow. It wobbled, blown by an errant breeze from the tactless window. Found its balance, after teetering for an endless second. _You know that killing him won’t bring you peace._

Peace. Had that ever been an option? Had he ever known how that felt?

 _I’d like to think so_. Not arguing. Only wistful. And it was the lack of argument, oddly, that defused his anger. No manipulation, no invasions, no old memories flung out into the light as contradictory evidence. Only Charles meaning the words, those exact words, wholeheartedly.

Without physical hands, he couldn’t reach over and take those eloquent fingers in his. Mentally, he did it anyway. Felt Charles squeeze back, and smile.

_I still believe that he deserves to die. For what he did, to me, to my parents, to others…some people do deserve death._

_I never said he didn’t._

_You—_ He had to stop. To look at Charles, again. Differently. How many times did that make, since they’d known each other?

 _I’m not a pacifist, Erik._ Charles looked away. At the chessboard, tidy squares of black and white, arrayed in readiness for battle _. And I know the feeling of a mind that—that finds satisfaction in hurting others. I might agree with you that he may need to…not exist anymore._

_Then—_

_It’s only…I don’t want to feel that satisfaction in your mind, either._

In the hush, the fog crept in, around the windowpane. Wandered, tentative and curious, along a shelf, cradling lopsided towers of books. Settled down, expectantly, to hear what Erik had to say.

He shut his eyes. Opened them. Couldn’t look at Charles. Not now. Not through the wolf’s-eyes, not in order to see all that determination and complicated love, Charles facing his own convictions and compromises, on Erik’s behalf. And asking for equal bravery, in return.

He gazed at Charles’s nightstand, for a while. An empty cup that’d once held tea. Notes and a sketch regarding an idea Hank’d had, involving metallic resonances and sympathetic vibrations and a telepathy-enhancing helm. Books, of course. The stack currently beside the bed ranged from a study of beavers by a Welsh churchman to classical notes on flying apparati to the most recent anatomical study by the doctors at the new university, overseas.

Ideas, all of them. Imagining the world to be other than what it was. The quest to know more, to learn more, to take joy in the simple act of discovery, of creation.

_You never…Hank said so, when you first brought me—when we first came here. You were never allowed to attend the universities. Because you were the only heir._

_I wasn’t allowed, no._ Charles hesitated, as if uncertain whether Erik would want more words. _But I did…I corresponded, with the masters. Secretly, of course, my stepfather never would’ve allowed—but I was the heir, after all; who’d countermand my right to send letters? It wasn’t the same, but it was better than nothing._

_Do you hate him? For taking away your possibilities?_

_Do I…_ Charles breathed in, softly. Lifted one hand to his shoulder. The place where, beneath layers of fabric, one of the largest scars would be dull to the touch. _No. Not for that. I did—for a very long time I did—but I can do so much good, here. I’ve been able to make this place a haven, a safe space, for those like us. I can change lives, for the better, I hope. If I’d not been—who I am—none of that would’ve happened. And I’d’ve never known you. I think…I think that that, this, all of this, has been worth it. Worth everything._

 _Everything._ He wanted to touch Charles, then. Wanted to rest his own hand over that solitary one, remembering old pain.

 _You can_. And Charles was smiling at him, wry and lopsided and effervescent as the wine that’d been served at dinner the previous week, on which those blue eyes’d gotten deliciously tipsy and then proceeded to deliver lectures about maternally inherited characteristics. Erik found himself smiling, in response to that memory, to the present crooked expectationless hope. Held out a paw. And somehow it didn’t matter that it was a paw.

Charles took it. Met Erik’s hand with his, the fingertips that’d just been seeking out old wounds.

The fog swirled up and down the bookshelf, impatiently.

 _If we kill him,_ Erik said, _it won’t be because I hate him. I do. But that’s not why he needs to be gone._

_Yes._

_Yes, then._ Duty. Necessity. _Don’t ask me to pretend I won’t be glad—I will be—_

_I won’t ask._

_—but that’s not the reason._

Charles didn’t say _I love you_ , not in words, but the whisper of honey and freshly baked bread and parchment in sunlight flowed over them both anyway. Crested, and lingered, embedding itself into hearts.

 _Sleep with me,_ Charles said, softly.

_You—I—_

_Not like that! I only meant—I won’t be awake much longer, we can both feel that, since you made me take the horrible painkillers—_

_You needed the horrible painkillers, Charles._

_—and I’d like to hold you. And feel you, here, next to me, while I’m not—while I’m asleep. You—I love you, you know. Regardless of—anything, ever. I love you._

_I know. I love you._

_I know,_ Charles whispered, honesty like the rhythm of the sea, steady and certain, and put an arm around Erik when Erik stretched out beside him, and fell asleep with his fingers nestled in Erik’s fur for safekeeping.

Over the next five days, Erik woke up human on three separate occasions. The moments never lasted.

The first time, he’d awakened to the sensation of wide blue eyes resting on his body, incredulous and overjoyed. Charles hadn’t moved, compact warmth still tucked up against him, the way they’d gone to sleep, bodies and thoughts entwined. Probably _couldn’t_ move, Erik thought; he knew what Charles was feeling, because he was feeling it too, afraid to speak or shift a leg or breathe out loud and call attention to this specific glorious second.

The satin sheets were luxurious and welcoming against his bare skin, and the feathery pillow was softly cheerful beneath his head, and when he breathed in he felt the air enter his lungs.

The second stretched out. Became a beautiful eternity.

Other things were beautiful, too. Those summer-ocean eyes. Charles’s lips, wet when he licked them, a shining trace of moisture over skin. The heat of a freckled arm, resting over Erik’s waist. He thought he might feel that heat in his bones forever.

 _Erik_ , Charles said, wide-eyed, _you’re quite naked in my bed_.

So he was. Charles wasn’t, but _was_ shirtless, and that was a very attractive expanse of skin, meeting his. _Very_ attractive.

_Oh, my._

_…did you honestly just look at…that…me…there…and say THAT?_

_Sorry! It’s impressive!_

_I—_ but he’d stopped, because he knew that sensation. Knew it too closely. Vertiginous and destabilizing and leaving him in that other form. Again.

Charles thought something quite succinct and decidedly blasphemous at the universe. Erik had incontrovertibly agreed.

_It’s still promising…your body’s trying to remember. Overcoming whatever blocks he had placed in your mind…_

_I would love for it to overcome these blocks a bit faster._

_Well…I did get to see you naked. I believe we can count this as a minor victory, don’t you?_

And Erik’d laughed, despite the frustration, and gleefully and quite satisfactorily eavesdropped on Charles in the bath, later.

He’d tried not to think about becoming human again. If he thought about it, if he wanted it too badly, it might never happen again. Vanished possibility, like a mirage.

Charles would’ve told him not to think that way, but then Charles was a determined optimist, by choice if not by nature. Erik loved the optimism, and couldn’t find it, for himself. Each fleeting transformation would’ve cracked his heart open again, if he’d let himself feel the hope.

Charles could hope for both of them. That’d be enough.

The morning of the reception, nerves were pulled tight. Quavering, all around the room. The day’d been full of clouds, silvery-grey and noncommittal; a bevy of servants, many of them looking somewhat anxious since Charles hosted formal occasions once a year if that, lurked around each corner, surreptitiously giving last-minute polishes to the silver and straightening not-really crooked tapestries. They all wanted the day to go well. Of course they did; everyone liked seeing Charles smile. Those smiles brightened up the entire world, and that wasn’t even a metaphor, given the telepathy.

Charles spent the afternoon welcoming guests, before the evening’s scheduled banquet. Holding court. Receiving petitioners and presents. He got tired of sitting in the throne—which, to be fair, was exceedingly unforgiving to its occupants—about halfway through, and, before the next ambassadorial delegation could turn up, abandoned the seat in favor of the steps in front of it.

Erik snorted. _Hardly dignified of you._

 _No, I’m hopeless._ Charles used the throne as a backrest, comfortably, heedless of expensive robes. _Come here and be an armrest?_

 _Shameless, also,_ Erik said, and flopped down at his side, equally comfortable. _Better?_

_No, THIS is me being shameless._

_Charles—!_

_That’s for after you’re human again._ “All right, send in the next group…”

And then, wolf-shaped armrest forgotten, sitting straight up. _Oh—_

Erik could, always, these days, feel Charles in his head, ever-present merry warmth and complex compassion, kindness and old wounds and sugared tea. And, because he _could_ feel Charles in his head, he also felt the instant of sheer disorienting shock.

_She’s a telepath!_

_What happened?_ No time for unnecessary questions like _are you sure_ or _how do you know_. Of course Charles would know.

The woman glittered like newly-fallen snow, all ice crystals and chilly sharpness. Dressed in white, she stood out among the flock of richly-hued fellow courtiers like a flash of lightning through a storm. She stood three bodies away, in the receiving line, and smiled like a knife.

_Charles, what—_

_She’s trying to—oh, hang on, one second—ah, better. She’s attempting to, ah, explore my mind. Unsuccessfully, I might add._

_Are you all right?_

_Oh yes. I’ve had years to practice shielding, and it’s my head, not hers. She is quite good, however_. Charles sounded begrudgingly, but genuinely, admiring. _Not the approach I would use, but extremely effective—_ impressions of honed edges, crystalline stiletto icicles, cold and brittle and unforgiving, delicate and precise. _Really quite good, in fact._

 _But you’re better_. Also not a question. No doubt there.

 _Of course I am_. In the single statement, Charles somehow managed to combine pure arrogance, comforting reassurance, and simple fact. _It was rather a surprise, though. I’m shielding you, by the way. I don’t think she ought to be able to follow our connection, but—well, she IS good, and I know we’ve worked on focus, in our link, but the only way to be sure would be for me to stay out of your head completely—_

_No._

_No. But do be careful._

_—ME! Charles, you—YOU be careful, please—_

No time, though. Not when the ice-crystal woman was smiling at them, next to be presented, calm and confident and utterly unshaken by any unexpected telepathic resistance.

Emma Frost. Lady Emma Frost. The name suited her, Erik thought, as she was announced. Felt Charles nod.

She even curtseyed flawlessly. Too flawlessly, Erik thought: perfection verging on insult. Charles looked back, coolly regal even from his spot atop the steps—enough so to make Erik blink, in their heads, in amazed admiration—and then got to his feet, and visibly decided to play the part right back at her.

The offered hand, ring and all, did surprise her; and it should, since Charles hadn’t bothered to demand formal obeisance from any other petitioners that day. In fact, Charles had never bothered with the kissing-of-hands _ever_ ; and both Sean and Raven, off to the side, were openly staring.

To her credit, she smiled. Touched lips to fingertips—Erik tried not to growl—and then met Charles’s gaze, and smiled a bit more. “You’re not what I was led to believe.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “And you are not Lord Shaw. Though you are wearing his insignia.”

“Obviously not.” Neutral, but with an edge of something like contempt at the banality. “He had obligations elsewhere.”

“More important,” Charles inquired, “than swearing fealty to his king?” Opening skirmishes. Swords meeting. Erik could practically taste the iron.

“Obviously…yes.” She glanced from Charles to Erik, and then back again. “He warned me you might be formidable. I confess I thought he’d been exaggerating.”

Charles only looked at her; after a second, she laughed. “I am impressed. I actually felt that one.”

 _Charles—_       

_Sorry, Erik, this is a bit difficult—_

Charles’s fingers were tense, curling into his fur. Imperceptible, maybe, to anyone else. But Erik could tell.

“Sebastian wondered whether you could be convinced to join us.” Her voice sounded smooth, but not quite as smooth as before. “You can’t be, can you? So incorruptible, Charles Xavier. Always trying to do the right thing. Always trying to make the world love you. The world’s never going to love you, Charles. Don’t be naïve.”

Erik found himself snarling. On his feet. Hackles up. She was wounding Charles. Who didn’t admit to the impact. Not perceptibly. Only in their heads. _Don’t—don’t believe her, please, I do love you, Charles, I DO, don’t listen—_

_I’m not. I’m—not. Thank you—oh, no, wait—_

She raised both eyebrows at them. Looked at Erik with a bit more interest. “I _do_ know you. You were gone before my time, of course. But you should know that Sebastian’s very proud of you. One of his most superb creations. So deadly, and so full of rage…Charles, do you know you’re taking in Sebastian’s strays?”

“He’s no one’s stray,” Charles said, very soft, but somehow much more frightening for that reason, “he’s his own person, he _is_ a person, and a good one. And _you_ need to be gone. Before I forget how to…do the right thing.”

Icicle eyes seemed entertained by that. “I almost believe you mean it. In which case you would be far more interesting. But interesting can also mean dangerous. And—” A step back; physical loss of balance, this time. And when she recovered, she looked far more furious, less composed. “ _That_ was a very bad idea.”

 _Erik,_ Charles suggested, still calmly but very urgently, _get everyone out of here, if you would, please._

_I’m not leaving you!_

_I honestly don’t know what she has in mind and I—_

_No, Charles!_

_Fine!_ And abruptly the crowd, the receiving line, the courtiers, melted away, orderly raindrops in a crumbling world. Even Erik, excluded from the mental command, felt the weight of it shiver through the air.

Emma Frost laughed, aloud. “Still worrying about meaningless little lives? You ought to be more concerned about your own. Or did you think I came here alone?”

“You said he wanted me to join you.” Charles moved one step lower. Only a few up from the pale woman, he was nearly her height. The great hall, around them, echoed noisily with silence. Preemptive desolation, the aftermath before the war. “Join you in what?”

“You honestly expect me to tell you? Clichéd monologues are for Christmas pantomimes and children, Charles.” Even Erik felt the force of that invisible blow. It skittered sideways, off of Charles’s shields, and missed; but Charles took a breath, in both their heads.

At the end of the hall, two guardsmen—not Charles’s own—appeared from shadows. Raised crossbows. Erik nearly laughed, himself, and made short work of that. Left them bleeding—but alive, Charles would appreciate that—on the cold stone floor.

He spun around to find Charles backed up against the throne, eyes wide, as the woman’s skin hardened slowly into something else, glittering and cruel, diamond-edged hand pressed against a vulnerable throat. Charles tried to breathe, couldn’t, and gasped something about a physical secondary mutation—trust Charles to think in scientific terms while in combat!—and then, _I can’t read her well, not like this, I need you to distract her—_

She wasn’t all diamond, not yet, not everywhere. Erik lunged. Bit.

She shrieked in pain. But only for a second.

Charles hadn’t even gotten up from the floor, and was trying to inhale through the bruises, but his eyes were fixed on Emma Frost’s, taking advantage of the second’s lapse, and exploiting it.

Erik found himself shivering again. He’d always known Charles was powerful. He’d never quite realized what that meant, until now.

The hall wasn’t deserted. It was full of presence. Potency. Lengthening shadows, stretching tendrils slowly over the floor.

Charles breathed in, abruptly; shook his head, blinked, and swallowed, surfacing. _Well, that was unpleasant…_

_Charles are you all right?!_

_Ouch, Erik, not so loud…I think…to be honest I’d rather like to be ill, but we don’t have the time. Shaw—Schmidt—he wants to start a war—_ Dizzying images, fire and blood and mutated bodies, warped and mindlessly hating, under Shaw’s command. _Not merely any war. He wants to ruin the world. So that he can feed off the pain._

They both eyed the currently-mute Emma Frost, who’d not moved from the spot, gazing at nothingness. Charles looked away first. Erik could hazard a guess as to why, but not precisely what he’d done. Had to do.

_She’s not evil. She only wants to feel safe. And she feels safe when she’s the strongest. She thinks Sebastian Shaw is strong._

_Shaw—Schmidt—he experiments on us, doesn’t he? On the…the people with special abilities. Turning them into weapons._

_Yes._

_I was one of those._

_Yes. But not anymore_. Charles found a smile for him, through lingering pain. _Now you’re…yourself, I suppose._

_I’m yours._

_I love you. Always. Oh, and—you’ll be pleased to hear this, I think—she did know what he did to you. Not all the science of it, of course. But he bragged about it, to her, once. Given that memory, I should be able to—_

“Weak.” The voice interrupted the beginnings of joy. “You should have killed me. You could have.”

“I try not to destroy anything of such beauty.” Charles’s tone was very gentle; almost an apology, Erik thought. He felt no such impulse. She’d _hurt_ Charles. He sat down, and glared at her, and growled. As an afterthought, made a few iron hooks and tapestry-hangings tangle around her limbs.

She looked at them both, and shook her head. “You’re both such fools. But I suppose I ought to thank you. I can’t go back to him, of course. Not without having done what he asked. So you’re keeping me safe. I do love idealists.”

Charles sat up a bit more. Erik came over and inserted himself under one arm, for support; Charles patted him on the shoulder, physically and not. Looked at the woman, head tipped to one side. After a second, said, softly, “Yes, you do, don’t you?” and this time she was the one who looked away.

_You ARE keeping her in prison._

_Of course. I might have some sympathy for her, but I’m not that kindhearted, Erik. Besides, she won’t try to escape._

_How do you know?_

_Because I’ve associated the use of her abilities with debilitating nausea, in her head. The experience might be rather unpleasant for all concerned._

Erik desperately wanted to laugh, and settled for huffing air over Charles’s arm. _Can you stand up?_

_Oh, of course, it’s only bruises—_

Out by the doorways, other faces were reappearing, braving the tantalizing absence of turmoil. Raven. The guardsmen. One or two of the most courageous or most foolhardy courtiers.

Charles stood up and turned around and waved, and Emma Frost said, almost regretfully, from the ground, “I’m sorry about this, I didn’t expect to respect you, but you didn’t actually think I’d come here without a backup plan, did you?”

The assassin flickered into being in a whirlwind of smoke. Erik sensed the steel of the knife a split second too late.

Not so late that he could do nothing. He was flinging his mind against the cruel edge before it’d even become real, materialized, in the space beside Charles. Pushing. Frantic.

Deflection. An inch. Maybe two. Not enough. Too _late_.

The man—if it’d been a man, not a demon, a destroyer of worlds—was already gone. Erik remembered how to move, how to breathe, but couldn’t even catch Charles, no hands, no arms, nothing but his own body to hold off the collapse.

The knife glittered, between ribs. It slid out, a fraction, with the impact, when Charles hit the floor, and looked as if it’d been painted, a thin stripe of red over grey.

The assassin’d been aiming for the heart. A killing blow: if Charles couldn’t be swayed to the other side, then he would be removed. Permanently.

Erik could hear himself howling with grief. Literally. The sound billowed through the hall.

Other people were running, now, shouting for medics and bandages and assistance. Raven was crying and Emma Frost purred more words of complacent apology, and Erik wanted to kill the world, the useless helpless futile world, to rip it apart with teeth and claws and turn the soul of the universe inside out, because there was no soul left in a universe without Charles.

Charles coughed. Looked up at him. _Erik…?_

And he couldn’t murder the world or Emma Frost or the absent Sebastian Shaw, not now, not here, not with those eyes searching for his. _I’m here—Charles, I’m here—don’t talk, don’t—save your strength, please—_

 _Are you…all right?_ Even that mental voice was a whisper. Cracking. Trailing off into incoherent whiteness.

_Please don’t—_

_Tell me._

_I’m all right, I’m not hurt—Charles, you—you’ll be all right, you will, you have to be—you have to stay with me, Charles, please, I love you, you asked me not to leave you and I won’t, I never will, but you can’t leave me either, you can’t, please don’t—_

_Oh, Erik…I love you._

_I love you! And you aren’t going anywhere, not without me, do you understand, you AREN’T—_

_And you say…I’m the optimist…I think…I’m probably going to die._

_No,_ Erik said, blankly horrified, and then shouted it. _NO!_

He’d never tried anything like this before. Had never dreamed he could. But he flattened himself down there at Charles’s side, trying not to see the one pale hand upturned on the ground, so close, so immobile. Shut his eyes, closing out the babble in the hall, and concentrated.

With his eyes closed, everything shone. The entire world, the bones of the earth, running with darkly gleaming ore and metallic seams of joy. The precious embroidery on tunics. The gleam of cups and daggers and the solid heat of the cooking spits in the kitchen.

The whisper of welcome in each heartbeat, every body, every artery and vein. Stardust, Charles—oh, god, _Charles,_ his beautiful Charles—had called it, the glowing relics of the birth of the universe.

It sang to him. Reached out to draw him in. Yes, he agreed, silently, and then, focusing, finding that one ragged tear in the universe, the place where blood pumped and spilled and left emptiness behind, no. Not here, not now.

He held all that blood inside. Kept Charles with him. Kept the heart beating. Found torn tissues and flesh, saturated in red, and wove them back together.

He could hear himself breathing. Panting. Charles had stopped talking, in their heads. Unconscious. But breathing, as well. Not dead. Alive.

Alive, he thought, and then let himself collapse into friendly darkness, too.


	7. Act Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles is alive, but not exactly uninjured...and plans are being made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for being patient! Life, and the Epic Secret Mutant Fic, got in the way. The next couple of chapters should come more promptly, I hope! And I so very much appreciate all the kudos and all the love for this story. Just wonderful. :-)
> 
> Also, all of the herbs that Charles lists at one point were actual medical cures for various ailments, in the Middle Ages!

Seven: _and the king himself led the way…_

He awakened to a hand on his head. In his fur. Holding on. The faintest of breaths, in his mind. _Erik…?_

_Charles—!_

_Yes, I think so…_ Charles winced, slightly, at the force of Erik’s joy. But didn’t retreat, and Erik had the impression that he didn’t mind the sensation. _Are you all right? And also thank you._

 _You—I’m all right, yes—_ True, more or less. He still felt as if he could sleep for a week, but each second of meeting that gaze, Charles awake and alert and alive, got translated into joyous new strength, under his skin. _And don’t say—I didn’t—_

 _You didn’t what? You saved my life_. Charles looked at him, out of those beloved horizonless eyes, with absolute honesty. Plainly meant every word. Erik swallowed. Gazed at the visible edges of bandage, the whiter than usual skin, shocking against dark hair and cinnamon-spice freckles. Tried to believe those words.

 _You can ask Hank, if you’ve any doubt. He’s already told me how useful you’ll be in future emergency situations. I believe he’s pondering how best to conduct your medical training as we speak._ Charles smiled, a little. “Do you think tea exists? No one ever mentioned being ravenous after near-death experiences…”

“You want tea?” Hank hadn’t seemed to be listening, on the other side of the room studying some unidentified object and pointedly letting them have the reunion, but evidently the mention of Charles needing anything couldn’t go unheard. “I can get you tea. And toast. Or soup. If you’re hungry I can go find you soup—or anything else you want—”

Charles considered this offer, thoughtfully. “Can I have pineapple jam?”

“Um,” Hank said, “maybe,” and went out into the hall, presumably to confer with someone more knowledgeable about the current contents of their larder.

“So that’ll keep him occupied for a few minutes, then.” Charles sat up a bit more. He was lying on one of Hank’s infirmary beds, but the usual plain linens had been draped in rich wool and fur and heavy warmth, adding color and weight to the world. Some kind person’d settled Erik’s exhausted body in a second bed pushed up beside his; Erik wondered fleetingly who’d had the joy of collecting an unconscious wolf from the floor, and then, a bit ashamed, told himself that it didn’t matter and he’d find something to do for each one of Charles’s guardsmen in trade anyway. Newly shaped arrow-heads, perhaps, or sword-blades.

Not knives. He glanced at Charles’s mostly prone shape again. Not ever.

_Oh, Erik, don’t think about that—_

_I should’ve been faster—should have felt him, the knife, before—Charles, I’m sorry_. He ran out of words. Looked down at the cracked-stone floor. He couldn’t cry, either. He ached with the need _. I’m so sorry._

 _Erik, you DID save my life. Don’t apologize._ “What you did…” Charles tightened his hand on Erik’s shoulder, across the expanse of blankets. “Did you even imagine you could do that?” _I saw you, the first time I awakened, earlier. You looked nearly—you injured yourself, saving me. I was—_ Very quietly, this time: _I was afraid I’d lost you._

_Never._

_Yes. Agreed_. “We’re not letting Hank borrow you for the emergency cases, either, I think. Or only on very exceptional occasions. Not when you look like this, afterward.”

_I love you._

_And I love you._

Erik wriggled over onto Charles’s bed; Charles made room for him, beneath all the beckoning blankets, and wrapped arms around wolf-fur, and shut his eyes.

Outside, rain began falling, tiptoeing curiously around the walls. No windows, not down here in the converted space where Charles’d made room for healing out of a place of anguish. But they didn’t need windows; the tapestried walls even managed to hang there invitingly and insulate them all against the cold.

 _Charles_ , Erik began to say, wanting to ask, wondering how bad the injury’d been, such that Charles was remaining here in bed and not up the stairs in his own private rooms. And then he realized that Charles’s eyes had stayed shut; that that elegant voice had drifted into fuzziness, in his head; that Charles, in fact, had fallen asleep.

Normally this wouldn’t be cause for concern—Charles was wounded, after all, and needing to recuperate—but the suddenness was alarming. And there’d been no reaction to Erik’s half-question, saying his name, seconds ago.

_Charles?_

Nothing.

Erik sat up, shedding blankets in alarm. _Charles—_

“Stop that.” Hank was back, pushing open the door with one agile foot, balancing a tray in one hand. “He doesn’t need you panicking at him. And anyway at the moment you’re my patient too. Lie down.”

Erik attempted to scowl. He was no one’s patient, and Charles was hurt, and—

“I said stop that. He’s been like this since he woke up, which by the way was most of a day before _you_ woke up, and we’ve been trying to figure out why, but neither of us has ever seen a case like this before, so we don’t…he’s just easily exhausted by, um, everything, pretty much. It’s not getting worse, though. We think. If that helps.”

Erik glanced at the unmoving Charles. Then up. Stared at Hank with all his might. Hank shifted weight, uncomfortably, and set the tea-tray down on the closest surface. “He’s…I just don’t know. It’s not the wound itself. We—I—know how to deal with that, and that’s healing. Slowly, but cleanly. It’s this…”

Erik followed his gaze to the object under examination earlier: the dagger, on the table. It gleamed dully. Stained by blood.

“I’d really prefer it if you could manage not to growl at me.”

Not at you, Erik thought. At that. The stupidly malevolent slice of metal. It quivered in place.

“Behave yourself. I need that for analysis.”

Maybe his expression got through, this time.

“It’s not the blade. It’s…” Hank sighed. “Poison. We think. Not instantly fatal—or maybe that’s only because you got there in time—but the tip was coated in something, and it’s not any compound we know, and he’s…well. You’ve seen him.” They both glanced at Charles, inadvertently. Who shifted position, a fraction, in his sleep, and stilled.

“I just don’t know.” Hank admitted that much, softly, to the floor; to the workbenches, and the walls, and Erik’s silence. “I’m sorry.”

The pause extended into nothingness, then. The slowing of the heartbeat of the world, teetering toward ruin.

There should be a hurricane, or wind, or a storm, Erik thought distantly. Something equally cataclysmic, to mark the moment. The elements steadfastly maintained their funeral hush. Even the rain trickled off into quiet.

“I’m not going to die,” Charles said, waking up. “Stop thinking that, both of you. I’m only—”

_Charles—!_

_Yes—yes, I love you too, always—you can jump on me, come here, I’m not that fragile and you feel good—_ “—and I do think I can help reassure you, at least a little.” Blue eyes looked up at Hank, even while Charles’s arms remained securely around Erik, while those thoughts and that presence twined invisibly back into his own. Erik shut his eyes, and never wanted to move.

Charles, however, wanted to comfort the guilt-ridden Hank. Naturally.

“We may not know what it is, precisely, but I can tell you the effects. I know—I have to know, I think, I always have—my own body. The signals in my head, the sensory input…I’m fairly certain I’m not going to die.”

 _But_ , Erik whispered. He could hear it, in that voice. He knew.

“But…it may get a little better, with time, I’m not sure…I’m sorry, though, I don’t think it’ll be much better. Everything just feels…” Charles looked away. At the folds of richly-hued blankets, amber and amethyst and gold. His fingers tightened, in Erik’s fur. “Weaker. Less substantial. Like…having consumption, perhaps. Or some other slow illness, you know, the kind that isn’t going to kill you straightaway, but that lingers…I don’t know how else to describe it, and—Erik, look at me, please, this isn’t your fault, stop thinking that.”

It was his fault. If he’d been faster. If he’d felt the attack coming sooner. If he’d thrown himself between the knife and Charles.

If he’d never come here, if he’d never endangered Charles at all. If.

 _Don’t be ridiculous._ Charles sounded somewhat exasperated, but affectionately so. _You didn’t cause this. She wasn’t here for you, she was here for me, she said so, remember? This would’ve happened regardless. Which does rather beg the question of what Shaw hoped to gain…_ The sentences spun off into intrigued speculation, chasing down  trails of new possibilities. Erik found himself very slightly comforted, not by the reminder—Charles would’ve been hurt anyway, and no doubt more badly so, and what if he, Erik, hadn’t _been_ here, then?—but by the familiar irrepressible curiosity.

 _You were here_ , Charles murmured, gently, into those thoughts. _And, Erik, you did save my life._

_I love you._

_And I love you. Without limits, without boundaries, in any form_. “Speaking of you, Erik, and forms…I’d like to try something. If you wouldn’t mind.” Charles started to sit up and swing legs over the side of the bed. Erik and Hank, simultaneously, demanded, _“Stay put!”_ and Charles blinked, looked from one to the other, and meekly settled back down.

“One of us is technically the monarch, here, you know. And it’s not either of you.”

“You’re in _my_ infirmary,” Hank said, and Erik sat very firmly on Charles’s legs, immobilizing them, and scowled.

Charles sighed.

The wind turned up after all, and rattled the old wooden door, pointedly.

“All right,” Charles grumbled, “objection noted, thank you. Erik, what I was saying—or attempting to say, before the universe took your side—was that I believe I can reverse your transformation, now. Or Hank and I can. It’s not actually that complicated, we were on the right track earlier, and now that I know both the physical and mental components that were used—”

All the hopes and fears collided, for a vertiginous second. The question that emerged on top wasn’t the only one that mattered, but the one that mattered most. _Will it hurt you?_

“I shouldn’t think—”

_Don’t lie to me._

“I’m not.” _Hurt…no. But_ …

But Charles was wounded. Easily exhausted. No reserves. And a spark of memory presented itself: Charles laughing, surfacing from the depths of Erik’s head, breathing cheerfully labored: _your mind is bloody iron, you know…_

_You don’t have the strength for this, do you? Not now._

“Not exactly tactful, Erik.” _Honestly? I don’t know_.

“Some of us can’t hear your telepathic conversations, Charles.”

“Oh—sorry, Hank! Erik’s objecting. Unnecessarily.”

_Very necessarily!_

_You’re worth the risk_. “We can’t try immediately, in any case; we do need certain drugs, to make your body more…receptive to change, let’s put it that way. We should have all the components, but I can make a list for you, Hank…”

“Erik doesn’t look entirely happy with you. Here.”

“Thank you, I’ll also need a pen…Erik, you know I love you. And this…we can do this. I want to do this. For you. Understand?”

The wind yelped again, mournfully; in the wake, Erik collected words. _Charles. Please. You say I’m worth the risk, but I’m not—it’s not—if you’re doing this for me then please listen to me._

Charles stopped writing, to look.

_I know you love me. I know you want to do this for me. And I want this, too. But it’s not worth losing you. I’ve already almost done that once. And that was—I can’t face that again. Not ever again._

_Oh…Erik, you—_

_We can do this. Yes. But not yet. You said you might get a bit better. With some time. And if nothing else, the physical—please give yourself time to heal. If not for yourself, for me._ Charles might not listen for his own sake. But Charles might listen, if Erik asked.

And Charles sighed, very softly. Held out his other hand, the one he’d not been using to write; the motion tugged tension into the corners of his mouth, briefly, unthinking stretches of stitched-together flesh. But he was smiling, genuinely, too. Even more so when Erik nestled back down at his side. “Compromise, perhaps? I can give this to Hank—here, Hank—and he can find us some of the physical ingredients, I know we have antimony and crosswort and the opiates but I’m not certain about the mandrake and the wolfsbane, Hank, could you—”

“I’ll check,” Hank said, unflappable in the face of Charles’s enthusiasm, “if you promise not to get out of bed until I say you can.”

“Why does no one believe me when I say I can stand up? Yes, fine, I promise. To you, too, Erik, stop looking at me like that. As I was saying, compromise…” _Hank can get started finding these components—they’re mostly just relaxants in any case, to make you more, er, susceptible to suggestion—but we’ll wait a bit for the actual attempt. Because you’re asking. Fair?_

Better, at least. And arguing, at this point, was probably futile. _Yes. Thank you. Please rest_.

Charles smiled again, and handed over his list, and let Erik nuzzle him back down into the pillows. Accepted tea and toast and licked pineapple jelly from his fingers, completely disregarding both royal dignity and supposed invalid status, and Erik curled up at his side and watched that bright smile and basked in the feeling of shared thoughts, sweet and brilliant and vibrant as the purring of the companionable wind outside.

It was a good first night, despite the lurking apprehension that’d set in at Charles’s words— _like a lingering illness, weaker, less substantial_ —and Erik’s subsequent ceaseless vigilance. All the nights were good nights, really. Better than they could’ve hoped for. The knife-wound healed well, a clean cut despite the depth; Charles, although displaying visible signs of impatience, kept his promise and remained in bed and let the tearful visitors and well-wishers and courtly gawkers come to him, everyone needing to verify that their king was still here, still alive.

Raven, in tears, hugged her brother very gingerly, as if he’d turned into glass as a side result; she hugged Erik, as well, after, and Erik decided that he was getting used to this hugging business, and gave in and wagged his tail, because it’d make her giggle and Charles smile.

Charles’s guardsmen turned up with a bizarre wheeled-chair contraption that they’d clearly spent time constructing, claiming hopefully that it’d help keep him from needing to walk as much; Charles tactfully did not mention the existence of all the castle stairs, and instead called them over and talked at them earnestly for half an hour, until some of the guilt at their self-perceived failure to protect him lifted away.

Charles and Hank spent afternoons analyzing the traces of foreign substances on the knifeblade, and, sometimes, in samples taken from the wound. Erik had to look away, at those times. He wasn’t ever going to leave Charles’s side, of course not, but the reminder of his own slowness slashed viciously, in gruesome red detail, into his heart.

Charles slept often. Too often. He could manage staying awake, and holding conversations, and even the hours of scientific investigation, propped up by pillows, but simply ran out of energy around dinnertime, or sooner if he tried anything strenuous, such as the memorable expedition over to the library to acquire new reading material. Erik, who _hadn’t_ been informed of this plan, had been upstairs acquiring Charles’s favorite pillow, and had nearly destroyed all of Hank’s surgical instruments in a fit of panic upon returning to the infirmary and finding Charles gone, and _then_ had contemplated violence toward Hank himself after actually finding Charles, folded up on the floor two hallways over with a stack of books spilling over his arms.

Charles hadn’t let him bite Hank. Not even when Erik promised not to use teeth anywhere that’d show. Charles, instead, had argued that it’d been his own fault, for persuading Hank to let him out of bed and into much-needed physical activity.

Erik’d gazed at him, growled—but softly—and thought, _how would you feel, if this were me?_ and, beneath that, had offered his own understanding—being trapped in bed _was_ confining, in every way. He knew how frustrated Charles felt, because he was sharing the emotion.

But he still wasn’t quite prepared to watch blue eyes try, and struggle, to cover too-long distances too soon.

Charles had looked away, and then back, at him, and nodded, in agreement if not acquiescence. Had said, quietly, _I love you_.

Two weeks after the attack, Charles looked at Hank hopefully and thought, audible to everyone in the room, _upstairs?_ Erik, who didn’t think that two _months_ would be enough, tried to argue; found himself outvoted by plaintive blue eyes and Hank’s rather hesitant, “It isn’t _that_ far…” and finally gave in, on the condition that he could walk next to Charles and offer support the entire time.

 _As if I’d say no to leaning on you_ , Charles said, and smiled. And then proceeded to swing feet over the bed and onto the floor, and Erik yelped and bolted upright to make himself into a prop for one questing arm.

There were a lot of stairs, on the way up to Charles’s rooms. More than Erik remembered. More than he wanted there to be. They didn’t magically decrease in number, though, so he gritted all his teeth and focused all his strength on just being there for each step.

They made it up into the curving tower bedroom without incident, or mostly without incident; Charles climbed stairs slowly, but assuredly, despite mental complaints about resembling a ancient person crossed with a snail. Erik sent back prompt retorts about the improbable compatibility of that particular relationship, which made Charles laugh out loud, which made Erik feel briefly proud and then worry about breathing and availability of air.

The blue eyes didn’t protest being led over to the bed, and Erik worried a bit more. The book-lined walls and pillowy mattress peered at them with concerned paper-and-down-filled gazes, and worried too.

But Charles grinned at him, after being comfortably enthroned among cushions and fluff. _Chess game? I’ve missed playing, with you._ And Erik draped himself—carefully—across Charles’s feet, and agreed.

The weary-ocean eyes began closing, halfway through the chess match. Erik swallowed, hard; sat up, nudged the set out of the way, and used teeth to carefully tug blankets up over him.

_I’m not tired…_

_Yes, you are. We’ll finish tomorrow._

_Oh—but—wait, I was winning!_

True, but partially true because Erik’d been playing distracted, heart lurching every time Charles sighed, or changed positions, or grew too quiet. Charles, on the other hand, had been playing more or less like himself until the last few moves, when the loss of focus had become apparent.

_You can continue winning tomorrow. Or not, as the case may be. I could just be lulling you into complacency._

_Hmm…_

_Need anything? Tea? Water? More blankets?_

_No, only you._ Charles shut his eyes again, resignedly _. You may be correct…I could just nap, for a few minutes…_

 _Go to sleep,_ Erik told him, and settled down in a curl of legs and tail, gaze not leaving those fatigued eyelashes. _I’ll be here._

 _Know you will,_ Charles agreed, and the warmth of the concurrence slid and blurred into the velvet fuzziness of sleep, trusting and dreamless and unperturbed. Erik smiled, just a little wolf-smile, to himself, and kept watch.

Charles, sleeping, looked vulnerable, unguarded, even though he knew that was a false assumption; those time-honed mental defenses never truly went down, not even now, and disturbances would be dealt with decisively.

But he couldn’t help the tidal wave of protectiveness anyway, when Charles turned his head and dark hair tumbled over one closed eye, tangling in long eyelashes.

He set a paw over the closest arm, and held on.

A few days after that, Charles said, over tea and scones, “I think I’d like to talk to Emma Frost,” and Erik nearly choked on his breakfast bacon.

_You WHAT?!_

_I know you heard me, Erik, honestly. Though I do appreciate the fierceness on my behalf._ Followed by a telepathic caress, heartfelt and deeply sweet, golden-brown and delicious as caramelized sugar. “No, I mean it. We’ve wasted enough time—”

_WASTED—! Charles, you’ve been healing, how is that—_

“Just hear me out, please.” Charles lifted his chin another stubborn inch, and all at once Erik saw the monarch there, wounded strength that was more about the strength than the wounds. “She told us—before—that Shaw was planning something. Some larger strike, to instigate civil war. That was why they needed me out of the way, so I’d not interfere…”

 _You ARE out of the way_. And would stay there, if Erik had anything to say about it.

 _You know that won’t work, love_. “We need to know when and where he’s executing that plan. It can’t’ve happened yet, we’d know—I’d be picking up the fallout, if war erupted—but it must be soon. It has to be soon. And we need to stop it.”

_WE don’t need to do anything—_

_You agreed with me, once before. About the need to fight him. And I know—_ Charles hesitated, momentarily. _I know you want to see him dead. I won’t keep you from that, if that’s what you need to do. You know we talked about why._

They had. Had agreed, then, that Shaw’s vague goals—the death, the destruction, the fuel for his fire—had to be opposed. And Erik’s hatred of the man burned, like cold fire, through his thoughts and memories. Still true.

But Charles was hurt. That was another truth. That one burned, too.

 _Emma Frost_ , Erik said, and hated her. She’d caused that hurt.

_She regrets it, I think. She doesn’t want me dead. It was only ever impersonal, for her._

_Not better._

_Erik, please. For now…I think we do need to see her. To find out what else she knows. I’ll be careful, I promise you._ The blue eyes were very sincere. The morning fire, keeping Charles comfortable, crackled, in the pause.

 _Emma Frost_ , Erik agreed, against his better judgment, and sighed.

They’d been keeping her in one of the guest quarters, since Charles’d converted all his stepfather’s dungeons to Hank’s infirmary. Erik, completely convinced that no single lock could be secure enough, had pulled some of the metal into a glittering and tightly fused web across the door, and opened it when he felt a servant tap on it, bringing food. Charles, who hadn’t been told about this arrangement, raised an eyebrow at him, but clearly opted not to pursue that argument.

Neither of the current guards were from Charles’s handpicked extra-ordinary group, but they looked at his slow-footed approach with something like horrified concern anyway, and then practically ran over to try to assist. Charles sighed. “I’m really not an invalid, and this is already getting old—”

_You’re not as strong as you were, either. You know that. Stop protesting and accept the help when you need it._

_You won’t let me feel sorry for myself, will you?_

_Would you want me to?_

Charles sighed again, and summoned up a smile of thanks for his guardsmen, and even let them push him into the first available chair, just inside the door.

“Where do you want to be? We can move you!”

“What? Oh—well, I was hoping to speak to her, but—” This admission resulted in the chair, with Charles in it, being hoisted across the room and deposited near Emma Frost’s cushioned seat at the window, from which she hadn’t moved, eying the show with amused indifference. Erik, half entertained and half concerned for Charles’s safety, trotted along.

“Is there anything else we can do?”

“You like tea! We can bring you tea!”

“Yes, all right, thank you—”

One of them ran out the door, and ran back, so quickly that Erik started to suspect collusion on the part of the household staff. He’d not be surprised if tea remained constantly on the boil, in the kitchens. _Everyone_ loved Charles.

“Thank you,” Charles said, again, and finally shooed them both off, with assurances that yes, he’d call if he required anything, and no, they did not have to threaten the prisoner on his behalf, and yes, he had Erik for protection if necessary. The shorter of the two leaned down and whispered, to Erik, “If she tries to hurt him, you hurt her _first_ ,” and Charles said, shocked, “ _Stephen!!”_ and Erik licked his lips and grinned. Agreed.

“All right,” Charles murmured, as the door sealed itself up again, “I expect you can guess why we’re here.”

“I’d have to guess, wouldn’t I? Since you’ve made it rather difficult for me to read anyone’s mind.”

“Ah. Yes. My apologies.” Charles did sound genuinely contrite. “But I really couldn’t have you getting loose, you understand.” The chair was slightly too tall for him; he leaned forward, and managed to put both feet on the floor, and looked at her, earnestly.

“You were already in my head, Charles. You know what I know. _Why_ do you not have chairs your size, in your own castle?”

“It’s an heirloom. Most of them are.” Charles, apparently, was prepared to let the first-name basis slide, or might actually be pleased about the familiarity. Erik kind of wanted to growl. “You have to admit, though, it was a rather dramatic first encounter. Very much like a whirlwind. I’d like the chance to try again in calmer weather. So to speak.”

“What else do you want me to tell you? I don’t know where he’ll be. He moves around. He’ll know you’ve either killed or captured me. I doubt I’ll be of much use to you.”

Charles gave up on trying to reach the floor with his toes, and tucked legs up into the depths of the chair, casual and perfectly at ease. Emma Frost blinked.

“You can tell us what he’s going to do, if not where. And you will, I think.”

“And you’re certain of that.”

“Would you like some tea? I find I get cold easily, these days.” Charles held out a cup, eyes wide and guileless. The words weren’t, for all that they fell into the air with no accusatory bite; Emma Frost had the decency to look away.

“Tea doesn’t fix anything. Neither does your optimism, Charles.” She took the cup anyway.

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Charles looked at her, levelly; after a second, she took a sip, then sighed. “If you must.”

“I’ll be gentle,” Charles said, and she looked as if she wanted to laugh or shake her head in dismay, but in the end only set the teacup down and met his eyes.

From the outside, nothing much happened: a slight catch of breath, a distance in locked gazes. Erik, sitting at Charles’s feet, felt the hair along his spine prickle, and his hackles rise. The wintry air practically hummed with unarticulated power.

He tried to keep quiet, not wanting to break Charles’s concentration, but couldn’t help the accompanying apprehension.

 _I’m all right, Erik, don’t worry_. Charles kissed him softly, intangibly, not moving. _She’s not fighting me_. But he did sound somewhat distracted, attention elsewhere, so Erik only nodded and waited, poised to leap in at the first sign of trouble.

A gasp, an exhale, and they both surfaced; Charles said, gravely, “Thank you,” and offered a hand. She contemplated  it, and the _how-are-you-real?_ question was plain even without telepathic powers; but the hand stayed outstretched, and she took it, after a moment. Obviously thought something else, which made Charles grin.

“Yes, it is. I find that it works rather well. There might even be scones, as my secret weapon. Thank you again, and I’ll ask you for your answer once we return, fair?”

Emma Frost looked at Erik, this time, and said, “You know, I feel a bit sorry for you,” and “Fair.”

Out in the hallway, Erik asked, _She feels sorry for me?_ and struggled to keep the indignant tone out of his thoughts.

“Oh,” Charles said, and laughed, which didn’t help. “Yes. But not for any of the reasons you’d think.” _She said she feels sorry for you, having to try to win arguments with me. Apparently I’m quite terrifying with the politeness and the tea, which I don’t really see, I don’t think I’m terrifying, do you?_

_Only when you run OUT of your tea. What did she tell you?_

_I’d like to tell you all at once, I think…_ The mental request, after that, went out to Charles’s counselors and guardsmen, not all of them, but the ones he trusted most, the ones who ended up in the library looking at each other as Charles painted details of Shaw’s plans into their heads.

Coastal raids. Ships flying the colors of other nations. Provoking attacks, and widespread retaliation. War. And Shaw, absorbing energy with the release of each death, a loathsome spider at the center of it all.

 _We can stop this now_ , Charles proclaimed, softly confident. _We know which cove he’s using as a base for his fleet. He’s begun already—you’ve heard, or not, about the decimation of the English shipping convoy two days ago—_

This provoked some muttering among those who’d not known, and who’d had goods to be lost.

“Yes, well, there’ll be more. And pointing of fingers, and threats. And worse.” _As I said, we need to act now._

“We don’t have an army. You were opposed to conscription, as I recall.” This from an ancient curmudgeon at the back of the room. “Your stepfather always had an army.”

“The Regent’s policies are not under discussion.” Very calm, but the closest of the counselors inched away from the objector on either side nevertheless. “And I’ve never believed that conscripted farm boys can do more good than harm in a battle. We do have mercenary companies if we need them, but I don’t believe we do.”

“Then what—”

Erik wanted to ask the same question, because all at once he had an vision of where Charles might be going with this speech, and it was not a pleasant destination.

“A small group, I think. A strike force. Made up of people who have…special abilities, like Shaw. Like my guardsmen, of course—”

 _Don’t you dare!_ Erik shouted.

“—Like myself.”

The room erupted in babble. Charles let them squawk for a few minutes, and then put a stop to the noise. Decisively.

 _Enough_. Silence.

“This isn’t a discussion. It’s a courtesy. I believe that he needs to be stopped, and if I’m not willing to put myself on the front lines for that belief, how can I ask anyone else to go out and possibly die in my place? I’ll listen if any of you have practical objections, but don’t waste your time and mine with those thoughts about royal privilege or prerogative, all right? …Yes?”

“You’re the only heir,” said a brown-haired, quiet-voiced woman off to one side. “And you’re not replaceable, Charles.”

“Ah…Moira. I mean Lady MacTaggart, sorry, Moira—oh, drat. Sorry again. You are, of course, correct. However, you do all remember that I have an adopted sister, and the power to name my own successor? All right, then: the Lady Raven—”

“The Lady Raven’s going _with_ you, Charles.”

“—as if I could stop you. The Lady Raven, and, should the unthinkable happen, Henry McCoy and the Lady MacTaggart as co-monarchs, then. Witnessed?”

“ _What?_ Charles, we’re not even related—”

“No, but you’re an excellent estate administrator and you’ll keep Hank’s scientific indulgences in check. Besides, consider this revenge for that time you tried to set me up with the French ambassador’s nephew.”

“We were fifteen! And you were lonely, and I was trying to help!”

“And now you can. Witnessed?” This time there was a general rumble of reluctant agreement, washing through the room. Erik sat next to Charles, and thought, very quietly, _Will it be a discussion, with me?_

_Oh, Erik…it can be, if you’d like, I’ll listen, but you should know I’m not letting you go without me._

_I seem to recall saying that to you_. Flickering memories: despair, anguish, and blood, on the throne-room floor.

Charles winced, in their heads. _Yes. I am sorry. I can’t even imagine—well, I can, I can feel what you—but you know I meant what I said when I said it to them. I won’t ask my men, or anyone, to face a danger I wouldn’t face. And I do believe that what we’re doing needs to be done. And…I don’t want you to have to encounter him alone._

_Charles—_

_I’m not going to change my mind, so let’s just pretend we’ve had the argument and I’ve won, shall we?_

_I love you._ Helpless, in the face of all that determination. But that was Charles, too, the man he’d fallen spectacularly in love with, scars and courage and stubbornness and loyalty and crazy hope for the future of the world. And he wouldn’t ask Charles to change. Wouldn’t want this, them, any other way.

_I love you, too._

_I’ll be right next to you. The entire time._

_As you said…I wouldn’t want this any other way._ Through the noises of politics happening around them, new alliances and wooing of Moira’s good graces and speculative fortifications, Charles looked down at him and smiled, and Erik thought, _Sebastian Shaw_ , and then, _Charles_ , and smiled in return.


	8. Act Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik gets to be human again, at last. Though of course the transformation's not that easy to reverse. And Charles is already injured...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this update taking ages! Life, academic conference season, and other fics were all demanding my attention. But I have not forgotten this one, I have a Plan, and hopefully the last few chapters will be quicker. Thank you for reading, and being patient, and all the lovely encouragement! *appreciates*

Eight: _on the king’s royal bed/ they found the once-wolf knight asleep/ the king ran to embrace him/ he hugged him and kissed him again and again..._

 

Charles remained quiet, very pensive, the whole way back up to their rooms. Erik silently darted glances from blue eyes to the stairs ahead, and battled ever-increasing concern with each deliberate step.  
  
Charles had signed the decree making the order of succession official half an hour ago, as soon as it’d been drawn up in legal form and handed over. Had gazed at it thoughtfully for a second, setting down the pen. Erik had put his head on Charles’s thigh, and gazed up at him, worried.  
  
Charles’d smiled, a flicker of expression vanishing like dandelion-fluff in wind, and set a hand on his head, but hadn’t said anything. Erik couldn’t tell what he might be thinking, having just settled the realm’s future in the case of his own death.  
  
No. Charles wasn’t going to die. Simply wouldn’t happen.  
  
He, Erik, wouldn’t let it.  
  
They’d arranged to leave in three days’ time, arguably the soonest supplies and transportation could be arranged. Erik’d been a bit surprised that Charles, who’d seemed so impatient to be in motion, had agreed to wait that long. Now, watching the slowness of movements as careful feet climbed stone steps, he thought that perhaps he knew why. And his heart ached with the knowledge.  
  
Charles was wrapped up at the moment in a stray blanket, one that’d been a gift from one of the more eccentric courtiers, Lord something-or-other Stark. The man was cheerfully unconventional and barely ever came to court, preferring to spend time working with his blacksmiths and developing new styles of armor; but Charles considered him a friend, and he’d heard about the attack, and had sent what Erik privately considered to be the universe’s gaudiest blanket, all red dye and gold thread and precious stones. It turned out to be the warmest blanket in the castle, though, and sneakily lined with an inner layer of flexible metal, some improbable fantastical unknown alloy.  
  
Charles had laughed for several minutes at the color choice and glittering jewels, and then had felt the weight of it, and heard the murmur of metal through Erik’s mind, and had stopped laughing. But had, then and later, bundled himself up in the folds, for warmth, for protection.  
  
That face, against the vivid fire-jewel colors of the blanket, looked pale, now. Even the hair lay flatter than usual, subdued.  
  
Apparently his worry must’ve gotten loud enough to register; Charles blinked and paused before the next stair, looking down. _Erik?_  
  
 _I love you. Please tell me. What’s wrong?_  
  
 _Oh—it’s not—nothing’s wrong, I promise. But you’re not going to like it, either. Even though you should._  
  
 _Even though I—Charles, what are we discussing?_  
  
“I think…” Charles studied the steps remaining to be climbed. “I think if I sit down here I won’t want to get back up. I’ll tell you once we’re in bed, all right?”  
  
 _Do you NEED to sit down? I can—_  
  
 _No, I’m fine, it’s fine._ “I love you, you know. Just, ah, remember that, when I say this, will you?”  
  
 _You’re not helping_ , Erik muttered, and then used his abilities in an utterly unashamed manner to tug on all the metal in the hideous and necessary blanket, scooping his target off confused feet and into a disoriented ball of fabric, which he proceeded to toss up the stairs and into bed.  
  
 _Hey!_  
  
 _I’m only sorry I didn’t think of it sooner._ He bounded up the stairs as well, and flopped down on the coverlet, as not-really-annoyed sapphire eyes and disheveled hair emerged from the folds. _You’re not that heavy. Especially not now._  
  
 _Hmm. You’re lucky I love you._  
  
 _Oh, I know._ Sincere; and he could taste the warmth of Charles’s wordless acknowledgement, all sugared tea and silky spiced heat, in reply. _Now tell me what you wanted to tell me_.  
  
“Impatient, are you? I thought that was my role.” Charles folded legs up, beneath the affectionate clutch of the blanket. _I believe it’s time we went about turning you human again_.  
  
For a second, swamped in pure white shock, Erik couldn’t respond. That’d been so far from his mind. The furthest idea.  
  
 _You—you said you didn’t know if you—if you were strong enough—_ He remembered those words. Very precisely.  
  
 _I still don’t know, not entirely. I suspect I won’t know until we make the attempt. But I am better—you were right, about that, about waiting—and I think that this is as good as we’re likely to get. And if we’re facing Lord Shaw in three days…_  
  
That argument did make sense. Tactically, logically, strategically: Shaw wouldn’t be expecting that, wouldn’t be expecting Erik at all, much less in full command of himself, his abilities, his transformation.  
  
And oh how he wanted to be himself, Erik Lehnsherr, again for that. To stand at Charles’s side in the fight. He would regardless, but that way it’d mean more, somehow. A reclamation. Everything he’d lost, and more. Revenge. Triumph. A battle-cry: you couldn’t break me. Not forever.  
  
Not forever, because Charles had put him back together.  
  
Charles, who was the injured one, now. Charles would argue, of course—was arguing, in fact, saying that he was fully healed, that he’d never be any more healed than this, words which opened new wounds even as they rang true. Charles wasn’t fragile; Erik knew that, because he knew Charles, strength like shield-steel at the core, straight and unflinching and true. He also knew that Charles would push every inch of that unflinching strength until it ran out, and further, in pursuit of a cause he believed to be right.  
  
 _You’re thinking about something else._ He could hear the distraction, a faint whisper of inattention in shared thoughts. _Aren’t you?_  
  
 _I was—no, I’m not, I heard everything you just said and I agree, at least with the bits about you facing him this way—_  
  
 _Yes, you are. Tell me, Charles._  
  
“It’s only…” Charles bit his lip. Looked down, pleated the hem of the blanket between restless fingers. “We need to do it now, I think. Tomorrow.” _After Shaw, afterwards, we may not…I may not…have the strength for this after all. I’d like to do this for you before we go. While I can_.  
  
He didn’t say the other words, but Erik heard them, hiding in the shadows: what if Shaw was too strong for them, for Charles himself? What if they never got another chance to try?  
  
 _Charles_ , he said, denial and agreement knotted up in one word. Charles smiled, not entirely happily. “I also had a word with Hank, earlier. We do have everything, as far as the physical components are concerned. I’m making some adjustments, though. Shaw—well. He wasn’t overly concerned with your comfort, or your ultimate recuperation. Let’s just say you’re lucky to not be addicted to anything, or blinded, or worse.”  
  
 _Charles—_  
  
 _I love you._ “In any case it’ll be easier with me helping the process; we won’t have to rely on the drugs as much to initiate the transformation.” Charles held out an arm; Erik wriggled under it. Set his chin on that chest; tried to radiate warmth and closeness and support.  
  
Support. Him. He spared a moment for the indistinct amazement. When Charles had found him, he’d been running through a forest. Lost. Vicious. Prepared to kill.  
  
 _And now you’re not._  
  
Well, not the first two, at least. He was still prepared to kill, if he had to. But only when he had to, and not out of unthinking rage. He wasn’t Shaw’s creation; he wasn’t an animal. He’d been realizing that, over the days and weeks and months of having a home. Charles, of course, had told him that from the beginning. The first time they’d ever met.  
  
 _Thank you_ , he said at last in reply, because he meant it.  
  
And Charles smiled again, this time real and heartstoppingly sweet, joy like horizonless oceans, opening out in all directions towards the future.  
  
 _Chess?_ Erik added, because he wanted to laugh, wanted to hold Charles with all his might, wanted to run or howl happiness to the world, needed to do something, to show Charles how much he was loved, and Charles loved chess, and Erik loved Charles.  
  
“Chess,” Charles agreed, grinning, that same lurking effervescent joy in those eyes, that voice. “I’d rather you didn’t get up, though, you’re lovely and warm…” _In here?_  
  
 _Oh—all right, yes. My head, or yours?_  
  
 _Mmm…yours. You can do more of the construction_. Charles _was_ tired, then.  
  
 _All right,_ he concurred, and set about imagining: not his usual sleek minimalistic metal pieces, the clean-cut board they normally used in his head, but the elegant carved wood that Charles liked to play with, exotically detailed and lightly scented, spice and teak and gracefulness.  
  
The surprise swirled and faded, replaced by glowing shy pleasure, in their heads; Charles kissed him, bright and appreciative and weary, and moved a pawn.  
  
The next morning, when it came, as it inevitably would, dawned peacefully. The calm secluded space of the infirmary, all serene stone walls and feather-stuffed beds and quiet competence, beckoned.  
  
Erik looked at Charles; Charles, sitting with him on one of those beds, smiled briefly, and did him the courtesy of not attempting to hide the trepidation, or the determination.  
  
Scents, sharp and herbal and not unpleasant, wafted around them; Hank came over, carrying a bowl. Erik eyed it dubiously. The contents seemed to be pond water.  
  
“It is not,” Charles said, mildly. “It’s a very diluted form of what was used on you in Shaw’s…experiments.” _It won’t hurt you. Even if this fails, you’ll only be sleepy…and, er, a bit…suggestible, for a while…_  
  
The pause demonstrated that Charles knew exactly how Erik felt about being made suggestible. Malleable. Compliant.  
  
He tried very hard not to growl. This was Charles, his Charles, not the man called Sebastian Shaw. Charles wouldn’t hurt him. Would never mean to hurt him. Charles was offering him this as a choice, not holding him down and force-feeding him as he screamed.  
  
Charles didn’t say anything, not in words, but a telepathic hand reached out and took his anyway, warm and tangible and true.  
  
 _All right,_ Erik sighed. _Do I drink it, then?_  
  
 _Er…yes?_ “We couldn’t come up with a better way. Sorry.”  
  
 _Fine._  
  
He couldn’t resist baring teeth at Hank as the boy set the bowl down, mostly because he’d never stop being entertained by the resultant jump, and just a tiny bit because he needed the outlet, needed the control, needed the irritability, right then.  
  
Charles, who by all rights should’ve been scolding him for that, said nothing.  
  
Erik stuck his wolf’s nose into the bowl, and mentally held his breath, and gulped as quickly as possible. It tasted like pond water, too.  
  
 _That’s probably the mandrake root._  
  
 _Just don’t say anything._  
  
 _Sorry…_  
  
Whatever else was in there, it worked quickly. Erik crawled up the bed and stretched out next to Charles, already feeling heavy, drugged, sluggish. _Charles…_  
  
 _Hush. I know. I’m here. Me, and you, and I’ll keep you safe._ One hand nestled into his fur. _Here…_  
  
And the world shimmered, like water sluicing over wet paint; blurred and smeared, and they were in elsewhere, someplace grey and unformed and anticipatory.  
  
 _Charles?_  
  
 _Right here_. That presence beside him felt quick and bright and anxious. _Still breathing all right?—oh, sorry, Erik, that was for Hank, not you. Only checking._  
  
 _I’m fairly certain I’m breathing, yes. So…_  
  
 _What do we do? We think about your memories, about reversing the process…_ The visions came up as Charles spoke, summoned into existence like revenants, pale and ghostly. The drugs, the ceaseless stimulation, the desire to discover the impetus behind the change, fear and rage and adrenaline. The praise, casually tossed, when Erik managed to shapeshift at will, to remain in the wolf’s body. Words given as thoughtlessly as a hand might throw a bone; and that was a literalized metaphor, as Shaw fed him like an animal, complimented him for being one.  
  
 _Shh_ , Charles said, softly, and wrapped telepathic softness around him—the corner of that ludicrous blanket, Erik realized, amused. It’d even followed them in here _. I know this might hurt a bit, but we need to go earlier, I think…_  
  
Delicate fingers, the fingers of the doctor Charles’d never gotten to be, carded gently through memories, spider-silk threads in competent hands. Erik waited, feeling each tug at the core of his being, the precise separation of warp and weft and pattern. He could be afraid. He might be afraid. One careless gesture would unravel him completely.  
  
He closed his eyes, and trusted Charles.  
  
 _I love you as well,_ Charles said, and the tea-and-scones solidity of that love filled all his senses, delicious and inarguable. _Ah. Here. This first time_ …  
  
They both watched that first time. In silence.  
  
 _So_ , Charles murmured. _Terror, and triggering your reflexes, and keeping you there…well, I can certainly do better than THAT. Think about me, if you would?_  
  
Erik blinked, not physically. _I…always am?_  
  
 _Yes, thank you. I mean think about us. About…the emotions you associate with us. Emotions are your trigger, but you need that point between rage and serenity, to find true control. The point of balance, when you know precisely what you want, and feel the joy of knowing you can have it, can do anything…_  
  
Joy, Erik thought. Serenity. Right.  
  
And then he looked at Charles. Closed his eyes, and felt the shiver of the iron in his blood, at the core of the earth, in all the pieces of the world. Anything, Charles had said. You can have anything you want, everything you want, you’re not defined by what happened to you, you’re yourself, Erik, I love you…  
  
Serenity, and joy.  
  
He opened his eyes.  
  
The world shivered from unformed grey to brilliant white, around them. And then to blue. The exact color of a certain pair of eyes.  
  
Charles laughed, and kissed him. The kiss tasted like hope, and delight, and, because Charles was utterly shameless, desire.  
  
 _Right, then. This should be fairly straightforward, now that you—now that we’ve gotten—now that we’re here. Just…focus on who you are. Who you were. Who you want to be. You’re Erik Lehnsherr._  
  
 _I’m Erik Lehnsherr._  
  
 _Yes._  
  
So many memories. Bright and dark and wolf-shaped and human. All his. All him.  
  
 _Yes_ , Charles murmured again, an encouraging stalwart presence at the back of his thoughts. That was right, too. He, Erik, was in love with Charles. He was a werewolf, and a survivor, and he could beat his king at chess five times out of ten, and he could tell the size and shape and composition of every bit of metal in the room without looking, and he wanted Charles’s hand on his bare arm the way he’d never wanted anything else in his life…  
  
It was just that simple, after all. An opening lock. Tumblers sliding into place. One final step, nudged by that guiding hand, around a corner, and out into the open.  
  
He breathed in. Opened his eyes.  
  
Charles, propped up on one elbow on the bed beside him, smiled.  
  
“Charles,” Erik said, out loud because he could. His voice. His voice, again, in his ears. His body, his skin, feeling the thickness of the bed, the sleekness of fine linen, the heavy motionless infirmary air. “Charles—!”  
  
“Erik.” _We did it. You did it, really, I only helped—_ Charles just kept gazing at him, wordless boundless jubilation like fireworks on feast days, elation and relief and the thrill of success and the beginnings of a very noticeable flush at the realization of Erik’s nudity, delight flavored with pineapple ice and spun-sugar candyfloss dyed in gold.  
  
“I love you,” Erik whispered, and then leaned forward and kissed him, lips meeting lips for the first time.  
  
It was, in that moment, all he’d ever wanted, and more.  
  
 _I love you_ , Charles whispered back, not out loud because his mouth was otherwise occupied, Erik busy memorizing all the smallest details, the astonishing softness of skin, the helpless beautiful inhale when Erik’s tongue licked along the corner of his lips. _I love you, I—is this right, though? You can feel that it’s—permanent?_  
  
“Permanent…” Somewhere in the background, Hank was making scandalized noises; Erik ignored this fact in favor of tugging Charles’s enticing bottom lip into his own mouth and nibbling. Charles made a small sound, obviously pleasure but with just a hint of something else beneath—trouble breathing? Erik thought briefly, then wondered why he’d thought that when Charles was clearly fine and kissing him back.  
  
 _As permanent as I want it to be. Look—_ He let go of Charles momentarily, to show off, because he could, because he _could_.  
  
 _I only HAVE to change when it’s full moon, otherwise it’s voluntary, whenever I want—_ his skin flickered again, shivered back into fully human. Freely. At will. His will. _This IS who I am, Charles, thank you, thank you—_  
  
 _Don’t,_ Charles said, laughing, _don’t_ _thank me, I wanted this as much as you did, and that’s brilliant_ —and then shut his eyes for a second, face abruptly very white.  
  
 _Charles?_  
  
 _I’m—no, sorry, I’m not all right, I think—but I will be, no need to worry—_  
  
That _had_ been dizziness, earlier. Charles’s dizziness, in their heads. Charles had pushed him, after all, that one last step.  
  
The scents of crushed herbs and tea drifted along the air currents, and Erik was suddenly weary everywhere too, the relaxants and the fading adrenaline clutching at his thoughts, every muscle throbbing as if he’d just run a marathon, forced into a no longer familiar shape.  
  
But that wasn’t all of the exhaustion. The rest was coming from Charles.  
  
“Charles,” Hank was saying, voice concerned. “Erik? Um, you probably should rest, at least for a couple of hours, those were pretty powerful soporifics and they’re still in your system—not you, Charles, you need to try to look at me, please—”  
  
 _Charles!_ Erik shouted, or tried to, and then he fell asleep for a while.  
  
He woke up to the feeling of his arms around that compact muscular body, beloved and miniature and perfect; and, less pleasant, the sensation of Hank shaking him. “Um, Erik, I know you want to keep him safe, but I think we have a problem…”  
  
“Charles?”  
  
It was Hank who answered. Not Charles. Who was lying very motionless beside him on the bed. “Yes. I—it hasn’t been that long, I should’ve let you sleep, but you sort of growled at me when I tried to check on him and I think I need to check on him because he hasn’t woken up—”  
  
No. No, no. Not this. Not now. Erik, sitting up frantically, tried shaking him. Charles’s head rolled limply across the pillow.  
  
 _I may not have the strength for this_ , Charles’d said. _But I am better, now, and this is as good as it’s likely to get…I want to do this for you._  
  
 _I love you._  
  
Charles had just been kissing him, lips full of life and joyous against Erik’s own.  
  
“No,” Erik said again, desperate. “No, Charles, please…”  
  
Hank grabbed the closest unmoving arm. Found the wrist, with two fingers. Waited, bit his lip, stared at Charles’s face, shifted the fingers, tried again.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“I…that is a pulse, his heart’s beating, but I don’t like it, that’s too slow—”  
  
“What do you mean too slow!”  
  
Human hearts, human bodies, hurt, physically, with fear, he was discovering.  
  
“I mean exactly that!” Hank pushed hair out of the way, found an earlobe, pressed a thumbnail into delicate skin, pinching. No reaction. “Dammit, Charles—”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“I don’t know!” Hank looked up, met Erik’s angry gaze, looked back at Charles. “I’m a doctor, not an expert on telepathy—I knew he was going to push himself too hard eventually, but this—”  
  
“Charles,” Erik said, to closed blue eyes and unlifting eyelids. “Charles, please wake up, I love you…” and thought, to himself, to the two of them, please. Please. You did this for me. You knew this might happen and you did this for me. You self-sacrificing idiot. I love you.  
  
Hank took a deep breath, brought up a hand, and slapped Charles hard across the face.  
  
Erik’s own hand snapped out a second too late.  
  
“Will you let go! I need that hand! Also, that hurt!”  
  
“Instinct!” He wasn’t going to apologize. Hank’d hit Charles. That was a fact. Even if they both knew why he’d tried it.  
  
In unison, they looked down. Charles hadn’t moved, though the mark of the impact was blossoming red over a cheekbone.  
  
“Seriously, you have an impressive grip.” Hank rubbed his wrist. “I wonder if that’s to do with your lycanthropy, or—”  
  
 _“Do something. Now.”_  
  
“I don’t know what else to—”  
  
A scuffle at the door. Sean and Alex, bursting in.  
  
“We heard a noise—”  
  
“—is everything—”  
  
“Charles, Hank, what’s—”  
  
“—why is there _a naked man in bed with Charles?!”_  
  
Erik lunged for the nearest blanket. Glared. The bared teeth were a reflex. Really.  
  
“If you could keep the panic to a minimum—” Hank attempted.  
  
“What the _hell_ is going on in your infirmary?”  
  
“Will you all just be quiet, please?”  
  
That voice, weak as it was, silenced the room like nothing else could.  
  
Erik spun his gaze back to Charles so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. Everyone else in the infirmary was following suit, but he could care less about them, at this instant.  
  
All that mattered was Charles.  
  
“Sorry.” Charles blinked. Glanced around the room swiftly, then looked up at Erik’s face. “I only meant, if you could be quiet just for a moment…I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, it’s just I’ve already got a rather terrible headache…and I feel a bit…I’d like to go back to sleep, I think, in fact…”  
  
“Charles,” Erik whispered. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. If he tried he might start crying.  
  
He’d only been human again for a couple of hours. He’d forgotten how badly it could burn one’s throat, to need to cry.  
  
“Erik,” Charles whispered back, and then in the next second collapsed against him, eyes sliding shut again.  
  
“Charles—”  
  
“Move!” Hank shouted at the gaggle of guardsmen, and elbowed his way to their side.  
  
“No,” Erik said, voice shaking, “no, no, please, you were just awake, Charles, please—” His voice gave up, then. Unreliable. Ridiculous human thing. _Charles, please, I love you, you can’t—you can’t wake up and smile at me and then be gone, just like that, you can’t leave me, you can’t save me and make me love you and then leave me, please—_  
  
A whisper. A spun-gold line of presence, like the magical silk in a fairy-story, in his head. He put out a hand and caught it, so that it could lead him home.  
  
 _Erik…_  
  
 _Yes, oh, yes, Charles—_  
  
 _I’m here, I’m only—I’m awfully tired…_  
  
 _I know. I know you are, I know, but—but you need to wake up, please, just one more time. Everyone’s here, they’re all worried about you, you know. And you can do this, I know you can, so come back with me, come on…_  
  
 _I can’t…five more minutes?_ Plaintive, weary, almost childlike; Erik bit his lip, in the cloudy textureless world that was their joined dream at the moment. The pain helped. Grounding. Too easy to be pulled into that neverending lassitude, otherwise.  
  
 _No_ , he said, firmly. _You need to wake up now._  
  
 _So very fierce,_ Charles sighed. _Always so single-minded, love…would it kill you to simply let things go?_  
  
 _Yes!_ Erik shouted. _Yes, right here, right now, it will, it will kill you, and that will kill me, Charles, do you understand? Tell me you understand!_  
  
 _You…you need me to wake up? For you?_  
  
 _Yes, Charles, please, for me—_  
  
 _So tired,_ Charles whispered, _but I’ll try_ , and the whole world around them inhaled, deep and shivering, with the effort. Turning itself inside out, to push them back to their bodies.  
  
 _Hurts—_  
  
 _I know, I know, I’m sorry, but you have to keep trying even if it hurts—_  
  
A sensation like a gasp, inside and out, all the air rushing into his lungs; and he was back, suddenly, blinking and dazed, holding Charles in his arms, both of them present and alive.  
  
Charles was blinking too. Awake. Utterly drained, unable to even sit up on his own, but awake. Looking up at him.  
  
 _Charles_ , Erik panted.  
  
 _Erik_ , Charles breathed back, _you saved me, you saved me again, you—_ and tried to reach for him with one weak hand.  
  
“Don’t,” Erik managed, out loud, “don’t move, please, I can—” and got both arms around him, holding him up while Hank peered into his eyes, tested his pulse, made disapproving noises.  
  
“Charles, your heart rate is practically nonexistent—”  
  
“I’m all right.” Charles didn’t try to sit up on his own. Just let Erik’s arms close around him, keeping him safe against the support of a firm chest, an embrace, all the extra strength he could offer. _Erik, I’m here. I’m here, I’m all right, I love you, we’re all right._  
  
 _You’re not. You’re in pain._ He smoothed hair out of one blue eye, carefully, as Hank shone a light into flinching pupils, and tested that pulse again. _You feel…_ Brittle. Worn thin. Different, in their shared thoughts: a single lonely courageous note, in place of a radiant symphony.  
  
“Charles,” Alex said, staring, “did you call the naked man in your bed _Erik_?”  
  
“Yes.” Charles sat up a bit more, really only a change in position, Erik keeping the arms around him in case he tried anything more ambitious. “Sean, Alex…oh, and Raven, and Moira, how lovely, did you actually summon _everyone_ in the castle down here? …meet Erik Lehnsherr. Properly, I mean, you’ve already met him, of course, as a wolf. Erik, everyone.”  
  
“Wait, he’s not a wolf?”  
  
“What did you think they were doing in here for so long?”  
  
“Well—”  
  
“Don’t answer that!”  
  
“Erik,” Charles said, looking up at him. “How do you feel?” _Is this—are you—_  
  
Charles was worried about him. Charles was lying in his arms, unable to sit up on his own, and was worried about him.  
  
Of course Charles was.  
  
“I’m all right,” Erik whispered back _. I’m all right_. And, when Charles smiled, when Charles leaned more securely into his hold and a wisp of dark hair brushed along his lips, touchable and present, he thought that the words might even be, for the first time, true.  
  
Charles fell asleep again, after all the guardsmen and Hank and even the white-faced Raven had been placated; fell asleep in Erik’s arms, under the blankets thrown over both of them. Real sleep, healing sleep, and Erik held onto him for hours, learning the shape and weight of him, the way their bodies fit together on the feather-stuffed narrow infirmary mattress, how they molded into each other’s angles and lines.  
  
Eventually, he slept too.  
  
When he awakened, Charles stirred, at the same instant, and opened stained-glass blue eyes, and smiled everywhere, surrounding him.  
  
The world didn’t skip a beat, then. Didn’t stop turning for a second and start over, even though it ought to’ve done. Charles was alive, and Erik was human again, himself again. And Shaw was still out there, and the castle hummed with preparations for battle. To hope, to imagine any sort of perfect new beginning, was irrational. Erik told himself so, said as much to his recalcitrant heart, which inexplicably wanted to argue.  
  
Everything did feel new, regardless. They were here—not undamaged, not without terrible wounds—but here. Themselves. And the universe got a little brighter, correspondingly.  
  
Charles certainly wasn’t any better than he’d been, but proved to not be much worse, either, once he’d slept for a day, once the toll of exertion had been paid in rest and tea and honey-cakes, Erik standing watchful guard as fingers made first attempts at lifting food. They made it upstairs to the snug book-lined suite on the second day, and advisors and council members came to offer maps and approaches and equipment for approval, and someone even unearthed clothing for Erik that fitted well enough, and Charles considered the slightly too-tight breeches with evident approval.  
  
“No,” Erik said, “no,” even though he wanted to say yes just as badly, and then left Charles in Raven’s care temporarily and went for a very long run, followed by a jump into the lake for good measure.  
  
Charles gazed at him with affectionate frustration once he returned, and went back to studying the ink-lines of Shaw’s cove on the best map, eyes distant, reaching out to try to guess at how many men they might be facing. Three, he said later, perhaps four; not so many, but all powerful, and hard to influence from a distance…  
  
Erik nodded, and eased him back into the pillows, and picked up the waiting mug of tea, his hand remaining there to steady it in case. Charles took a sip, and looked up at him, and breathed softly, tea-and-lemon sweetness and steam.  
  
So easy, this routine. As if they’d always known each other, always been together.  
  
Of course, they had been. For months now. And they would be, he thought. For months and years to come. After Shaw. After the battle.  
  
He could imagine an after-Shaw, now. He never had, before.  
  
The anger still burned, deep down. Shaw had taken him and twisted him, had done the same to others for years. Shaw needed to die, and Erik needed to be there when he did.  
  
But he needed other things, too. Chess matches by firelight. A castle that welcomed him with aged stone walls and green grass and tapestry unicorns.  
  
Blue eyes meeting his, stubborn and brilliant and compassionate and loving and beloved.  
  
Erik wasn’t used to needing anything, or anyone, but he did, now. That thought might’ve frightened him, once. But Charles needed him as well, more now than ever. And Charles didn’t see that as vulnerability or weakness. Charles saw that as strength: admitting the ways in which they could help each other.  
  
Charles, Erik thought, and knew that he couldn’t throw himself at Shaw, couldn’t be ready to die in the course of his vengeance on Shaw, not wholeheartedly. His heart would stay behind, held in blue eyes.  
  
One more night. One more day, and one more night. And then, then, they could think about the after.  
  
Charles held out a hand, and Erik took it, discovering fingers still warm from cradling the helpful heat of the tea. And found himself, inexplicably, starting to smile.


	9. Act Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before they set out after Shaw, Erik's human again, and we earn the R rating at last; or, the chapter in which they attempt, very cautiously, to have sex. First times, hurt and comfort and carefulness with injured Charles, tenderness, love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's probably eleven chapters now. But that should be it. I think.
> 
> Also, I [have a tumblr now!](http://luninosity.tumblr.com) Belated, I know, but still: followers and friends're always nice! :-)

Nine: _as soon as he had the chance/ he gave him more than I can tell_  
  


The last night, the night before the mission, came too fast and not fast enough, an uncanny blur of time, elongated and hurried all at once. Packs full and ready to go. Horses well-fed. Armor polished, and weapons honed to final glitters. Erik could feel the sharpness, in his bones.  
  
Shaw. At last.  
  
Being human was more complex than he recalled, he was discovering. The world felt different, to all his senses. Colors were brighter, sharper, more multifaceted. The wind was colder. And scents were practically nonexistent.  
  
He’d known all that, once before. Had forgotten, in the lonely years—and it had been years, he knew that now, Charles had given him back those memories—of fear and flight and rage. Had known the wolf’s senses, the taste of blood, the peculiar tang of wild animal, of evergreen trees and chilly snow; had felt time passing as an abstract yet material thing, registered only in the change of seasons and his instincts.  
  
The human body got cold when it was cold, of course. But it also got cold for other reasons. Apprehension. Concern. The sensation he had when he lay on the bed next to Charles and watched closed eyelids flicker in sleep and thought about how near they’d come to never opening again.  
  
He’d pulled Charles closer, the night before, arms around that smaller body, feeling his own muscles flex and stir at his command, long and lean and powerful. Feeling the weight as Charles curled sleepily into his warmth, half-waking, yawning in their heads and tucking his face into Erik’s chest.  
  
Erik tended to run warm, they’d discovered. Even in the draftiest parts of the castle, he’d be fine in shirtsleeves. And this was a good thing, an excellent thing, because it meant that he could use all his newfound height and broad shoulders and long legs to keep Charles from shivering.  
  
Charles hadn’t been lying, telling Emma Frost how easily he got cold. He always had—Erik, concerned, noticing that Charles seemed chilly even when other castle-folk were fine, had put a hand on his arm after supper the first day and asked, and had been blithely told that that was why all the robes and layers, that it was normal for him, just a kind of extra sensitivity—but what Charles wasn’t saying was that this was worse than that _normal_ had previously been.  
  
He knew that was true. He’d asked Hank, later. Who’d glanced at his king and then back at Erik’s expression, chewed on his lip for a hesitant moment, then nodded in agreement.  
  
Erik’d started putting an arm around Charles, casually, even in public, after that. He’d done it the first time without thinking—Charles shouldn’t be cold, regardless of whether they were up in cozy book-lined rooms or arguing with courtiers in a council chamber—and had realized, at the instant following hush, that this was probably not among the liberties one was allowed to take with one’s king.  
  
Charles, being Charles, had simply smiled and put a hand up to hold onto Erik’s own, over his shoulder; had gone on talking.  
  
Erik, who did not care about social niceties if Charles did not, promptly began holding him close at every single opportunity. In any case, he could always argue that werewolves knew nothing about propriety, and therefore he was exempt from such rules. He could argue that one very persuasively, if necessary. With teeth. And Charles could stay warm at his side.  
  
He liked the feeling of Charles at his side. And he liked the thought that he could be the one to keep Charles warm. That idea spread outward from his heart, some sweetly fierce proprietary emotion, and heated the blood in his veins.  
  
Even more so when Charles kissed him. And Charles kissed him often.  
  
Erik began kissing him in return, belatedly, once he figured out or remembered or learned that he could, which he’d known but not known all at once. He’d kissed Charles telepathically, of course, in the glimmering paradisiacal worlds that those mischievous eyes liked to conjure up for them to share. Somehow that thought didn’t translate to action, not until the morning after his own transformation, when they’d woken up together under the satiny mountain of sheets and pillows, when he’d caught blue eyes smiling at him amid white linen and cool grey light, and he’d run a hand over Charles’s back, over sleep-warm freckles and old faded scars, and thought very hard about how much he’d like those lips on his.  
  
Charles had laughed, blushed, smiled at him: _You could kiss me, this time, Erik._  
  
 _I could_ , he’d said, astonished. _I could_ —and he had.  
  
Charles tasted like drowsy mornings and kindness and delight, to his tongue. Like the taste of the wind, he thought, on a summer day, glowing with sunshine and beckoning to adventure.  
  
Wouldn’t make much sense to anyone who’d not very recently been a wolf. But that was all right. He knew what he meant, and so did Charles.  
  
On this last night, everyone gathered as if by common consent for supper; no one spoke, much, and that was all right too: they didn’t need to. Erik looked at them all, all of Charles’s men, loyal and devoted and here because their king had asked, here and trusting Erik among them because Charles believed in him, ready to go into battle because Charles and Erik asked it of them.  
  
They did trust him. Him, a werewolf, and sleeping naked in Charles’d bed. He couldn’t understand it. But for some reason they assumed that since he’d not bitten any of them yet, he wouldn’t ever. And also Charles wouldn’t approve of him biting anyone, which Alex pointed out in a tone that indicated that Charles’s disapproval should be the final word on any matter.  
  
He wasn’t _planning_ to bite anyone. But evidently that wasn’t even being considered as an option, in their heads. Erik spent an hour or so feeling vaguely disgruntled about this, until Sean came running in shouting about spears flying on their own across the practice yard.  
  
He did not admit to feeling guilty, either, though he did silently make the spearheads denser and sharper and more effective before returning them. Charles threw him a sideways glance that spoke volumes, but chose not to say any of those paragraphs aloud.  
  
He felt as though he ought to say something now, looking at them all assembled here for his mission, for his need to fight the man called Shaw, and he had no idea what, and Charles took his hand, in full view of everyone at the table, and said to them, _We’ll see you in the morning, my friends_. Somehow that voice was a trumpet-call, a clarion summons. Tea and scones and compassionate choices. Gentle determination that could break down a fortress. No wonder they’d all die for him.  
  
 _Not for me,_ Charles said, quietly. _For the sake of the world._  
  
And in anyone else’s voice the phrase would’ve sounded trite, melodramatic, overblown. Coming from Charles, it was true.  
  
 _I love you_ , Erik said, helplessly.  
  
 _I know_. Charles moved to stand; Erik jumped up and offered a supportive shoulder. Heard, as Charles accepted the aid, _I love you too_.  
  
He’d thought Charles must be exhausted, must simply want to rest, on this night of all nights. Had been entirely prepared to spend the night simply holding that compact form against his, secure under blankets, twined like the ivy around the castle walls, determined green life and equally purposeful cool grey stone.  
  
He could be content with that, he told himself. It didn’t matter that he wanted more, wanted all of Charles, wanted to learn the way he felt, tasted, sounded, under Erik’s weight, gasping as they came together, crying out his name at the moment of ecstasy; wanted to know whether Charles would feel the same, move the same way, respond the way he had in their thoughts, in dreams of electric bliss. It didn’t matter.  
  
He got to hold Charles, his Charles, his wounded and splendid king, in human arms, his arms. Could kiss those lips, and be kissed. If that was all he could have, that would be enough. Wishing was futile; he’d learned that early enough. And in any case the sensation of pale skin, red-gold freckles like the spill of a carelessly opened treasure-box, was everything he’d never known how to wish for.  
  
Enough. More than.  
  
So he told himself; and then Charles looked up at him, and set down a pair of throwing daggers, elegant and deadly, for collection in the morning, and the desire in those eyes wasn’t about simply being held. Not at all.  
  
Charles didn’t say anything, not aloud. Merely gazed at him, and the wanting became palpable.  
  
“Charles,” Erik said, and his voice sounded rough, unfamiliar all over again to his ears. “We can’t—you can’t—you aren’t—”  
  
“We might die tomorrow.” Very quiet. That quietness made it all worse. Because it was true.  
  
Even the flickering tongues of the fire stopped clamoring in order to listen.  
  
“Don’t,” Erik got out, “don’t say that, you can’t—that can’t be what you say, not to me—”  
  
“No. No, you’re right, I’m sorry.” Charles was sitting, legs crossed, on the end of the bed; there were pillows behind him, though he wasn’t leaning on their aid at the moment. Erik, for his part, had dragged a chair over to face him, fingers idly stroking the blade of a sword, provided from the castle armory, to hairsbreadth fineness.  
  
 _I’m sorry_ , Charles said again. _I should’ve said…we don’t know what might happen, tomorrow. But we know what can happen right here, and right now. I don’t want never to have had this. I want to ride out and face Shaw tomorrow with the taste of you on my lips and the feeling of you inside me and the knowing of you, all of you, you and me together and me being yours and you being mine and everything we could’ve ever wanted being ours—_  
  
Erik, spellbound, enchanted by words and blue eyes and firelight and steel, put out a hand. Caught Charles’s with his own. Wove their fingers together, slowly, exquisitely.  
  
 _Please_ , Charles whispered, looking at their hands.  
  
And Erik said, equally softly, _yes_.  
  
He got up, and came to stand beside the bed, and somehow Charles was up on his knees, and their mouths came together, and dimly Erik thought that the world could’ve ended and he’d never have noticed, because Charles, _Charles_ , and the answering laugh, brilliant and illuminating and just a touch shy, plunged into his bones and pulled him nearer, closer, until they were drowning in the kiss, submerged in it, his tongue in Charles’s mouth, tasting, exploring, plundering, while Charles made little urgent sounds and tried to beckon him deeper.  
  
Arms went around his shoulders, tugged at him, coaxing him down; Erik growled, but gently—Charles was _his_ , his to protect, his to love, and it was Erik’s job to anticipate his needs—and then pounced, shoving him flat onto the mattress, sending pillows flying giddily.  
  
“Yes,” Charles said, _yes_ —and then just moaned again, as Erik’s teeth found his earlobe, his throat, the tender skin just under his jawline. _Erik…_  
  
 _You like that? You like feeling me, on top of you, tasting you…_  
  
 _Yes, yes, please…_  
  
He grabbed Charles’s hands, pinned them down against the bed. Charles gasped, and the sound echoed in his ears, the best sound they’d ever known.  
  
 _You like that too?_  
  
 _Yes, Erik, yes—_  
  
 _I love you._  
  
 _Love you—_ Charles gasped again as Erik pulled him back upright, one large hand still wrapped around his wrists. _Erik, I—_  
  
“Strip. For me.” For a second he was afraid he’d been too demanding—he’d never done this before, not really, not like this, all those times in their heads counted for something but not the same, and Charles had years of experience to compare; he did believe the blue eyes about never having felt this with anyone else, he _did_ , but also couldn’t help the momentary pinch of inadequacy—but then he saw the smile, that dazzling flash of desire, and the world settled again.  
  
Charles was breathing fast; even faster, as he struggled up to his knees, reached for the hem of his shirt. Too fast, really, and even as the thought registered Erik felt the sudden wavering in their link, saw the loss of focus in the blue.  
  
 _Charles—!!_  
  
 _I’m—I can’t—I just can’t quite—_  
  
 _—breathe, Charles, just breathe, please—!_ The dizziness was overwhelming, and not his; he pushed back against it. _In and out, like that, that’s good—no, slowly, slower than that, deep breaths—_ He rubbed Charles’s back, carefully, through unremoved shirt-fabric. _You’re all right, you are, just don’t move…_  
  
 _I’m…all right. Yes. Thank you_. The breathing had eased, had gotten a bit more steady, by the time Charles looked up, and blue eyes met his, suddenly bright with something that wasn’t desire.  
  
“Charles,” Erik attempted, out loud, “this is all right, it is not your fault—”  
  
“I can’t—it’s not my fault, I know that, but it is, I can’t—” Charles stopped. Breathed. _I want you and I want this and I love you and I hate this, I hate that I can’t—can’t give us this, I—_  
  
“It is all right,” Erik said again, and put both arms around him. “It is.” _I love you_. His own frustration was immaterial; Charles’s self-loathing was bitter and scorching and infinitely worse.  
  
 _Why? I’m not—I am broken, after all. Can’t even be good for—_ And that statement came laced with memories like arsenic: old wounds, beatings, that fireplace poker, whips taken from the stable. That other voice, cruelly sneering, over blue eyes as they lay naked and bleeding at his feet: you think you’ll be a good ruler, boy? think you’ll ever be good for anything, when you break so easily? lucky for you I have a soft spot for your tears, I’ll be nice to you even when you don’t deserve it, now come here…  
  
“ _No_ ,” Erik said, and the walls trembled, every metal nail, every gilded thread in tapestry. _No. Charles, no_.  
  
“But I do want this,” Charles breathed, not looking up, eyes someplace very bleak and cold. Winter in the oceans. Grey chunks of ice freezing the waves. Too desolate, too isolated, even for storms. “With you.” _I love you, and—_  
  
 _I know_. He dared to run a hand through forlorn waves of hair; a few strands curled lonesomely around his fingers, seeking comfort. And he thought, as hard as he could, about what they could do, about what Charles needed, what they both wanted.  
  
 _Charles?_  
  
 _…yes?_  
  
 _You were…you were all right, at the beginning. Before I asked…before I pushed you…_  
  
 _I…was…_  
  
 _You were._ He stroked fingers through the hair again. They could both feel that, he thought. “You’re not broken. You know you’re not. I watched you making burn salve for Alex’s arm yesterday. And then you told that councilman—the fat one, who smells like tobacco—that you’d make him permanently believe himself to be a toad unless he provided us with free passage across that ford. You were very convincing; I believed you…”  
  
“I…might’ve done it, too. You recognize my councilmen by their odors?” _If I could have done it. If I can still do things at all._  
  
 _You can. You can do anything_. “It’s…an instinct. Charles, you saved me. And then you let me save you. And so clearly this time we’re going to figure it out together. You want me, and I want you, and this _was_ working.”  
  
 _Maybe…_  
  
“Maybe,” Erik said, and tucked a curl of hair behind the closest ear, “we only need to…go more slowly.” _If you tell me, if you need to stop—only for a moment—to breathe—if you promise to tell me…_  
  
 _Yes!_ “I’ll tell you,” Charles promised, eyes meeting his at last, shining with newfound joy. “We can try again. And I will tell you. Erik…”  
  
 _I know_. “Don’t thank me yet. We’ll…see how this works out.” He thought about that for a second; added, “Not because of you; because I may not be able to wait, Charles, this might only last about five minutes,” because it was true, and because it’d make Charles laugh, and it did.  
  
“So,” Charles said, through all the laughter. “Erik.” _Kiss me?_  
  
 _Yes, my king,_ Erik said, softly; heard his king laugh again, but embarrassedly so, even as their lips met.  
  
 _Don’t—not from you, please—_  
  
 _You are, you know. My king_. He meant that in every way possible: the man he’d given his allegiance to, along with his heart.  
  
“Well, then,” Charles said, lightly, dismissing the embarrassment, and slid a hand up to tangle in his hair, holding them in place. Behind them, the fire crackled. “I should properly knight you, shouldn’t I?” _We’ve never held tournaments or jousts, never fought any major battles under my rule; I’ve never had a Champion, before…_  
  
 _You—you want to—_ He sat up; Charles scowled in annoyance. “Charles. This is. I mean. I _am_ a werewolf.”  
  
“I had noticed, thank you.” _You’re my werewolf, and I love you._  
  
 _I love you—_ “But—you can’t just decide—”  
  
“You would die for me, correct?” Charles’s fingers grazed his cheek, his jaw, his throat; left trails of shivering fire in their wake. “You would fight for me, for my honor, for my safety. You would defend me with your life.” _You did once already. Don’t think I don’t know the risk you took, following me into the quiet._  
  
“I would,” Erik said, feeling the weight of those fingertips along his skin. “I did. I will.” The ritual words; he knew they were, because Charles knew. And he said them, recklessly, devotedly, wholeheartedly, true. “I will pledge myself to you, fight for you, for your honor, for your safety. Defend you. With my life if necessary. And all my victories are yours.” And one more oath, privately spoken: _I love you. I will always love you._  
  
“And I love you. Sir Erik. My Champion.” Charles smiled, a little. _I should probably tap you on the shoulder with a sword, but I think our current positions preclude that gesture…unless THAT counts as a sword, it’s certainly long enough…_  
  
“Terrible,” Erik said, and laughed, and then was startled at the sound of his own laughter, against Charles’s lips, “terrible, Charles, honestly, no Champion’s ever sworn an oath on _that_ …”  
  
 _First time for everything_. Charles kissed him again, sounding far too smug. “Now, then. First command. Remove my shirt, if you would.”  
  
“Oh, really,” Erik said, amused, and slid an arm under Charles’s shoulders and got him upright. “Like this?” His hands were already in motion. Soft fabric lifted, revealed pale skin, gilded-ginger freckles, faded worn-out scars.  
  
Charles leaned into his supporting arm. Let him do the work. Neither of them said anything about that.  
  
“Exactly,” Charles offered, answering the question. _Exactly like that._  
  
Good, Erik thought, and let Charles hear it. The bedroom, painted in fireglow, shimmered, coaxing them on. Coaxing them together. “I…imagined this. You know that.”  
  
“I know.” Charles grinned. Took a bit more of his own weight, sitting up. _You think I didn’t? You were there, as well, as I recall. Grass, and sunlight…_  
  
“Yes. But, Charles…” He still had one hand resting on a shoulder; ran fingers over muscle and bone, lightly, no pressure at all. Honest. _I never imagined THIS_.  
  
In all his dreams, all their wildest shared telepathic fantasies, Charles had been healthy. Strong. Enthusiastic, physically so. And while Charles could be—and _was_ —enthusiastic now, _physically_ had become a tricky adverb. Complicated.  
  
“I want this.” Charles turned his head, brushed a kiss over Erik’s fingers. “I want you.” _And what you said…we’ll make it work. It’s not as if I can’t; we’ll only have to be careful. All right?_  
  
“Yes…” He tipped that chin up, two fingers touching soft skin, so that their eyes, and then their lips, met. _You mean that. You want to try again. You want…all of me. My…sword._  
  
 _I very much want your sword, yes._  
  
 _Charles…I will be careful, with you. You can trust me._  
  
“Oh,” Charles said, and smiled at him, sudden and bright as kindling stars, “I know.”  
  
After that, the world became a swirl of sensations, of colors, of single vivid highlights, standing out in the flurry: Erik glancing at blue eyes and fair skin and turning to poke the fire, releasing heat and sparks into the air; Charles’s laughter, understanding and rare and entrancing as comets, in the night. The sweep of richly-hued fabric, tumbling off and lying puddled on the floor. Erik himself forgetting momentarily that his borrowed robe was tied with a knot, yanking on it, making it tighter. Charles getting up and coming to stand before him, naked and beautiful, the firelight tracing his skin with red and gold, and undoing the results of Erik’s frustration with deft fingers.  
  
“Better?”  
  
“Not better,” Erik growled, “you should be in bed,” and then swept all that fire-warmed skin up into his arms and flung them both into blankets.  
  
Charles laughed again at that, amused; but there was a quick shiver of want underneath the entertainment, glowing up like embers. Erik raised eyebrows, gazing down at him. “You like that? Me picking you up, taking you to bed…on top of you, holding you down? Honestly?” _I told you I wouldn’t hurt you. I meant it._  
  
“You won’t.” _I like feeling you_. Charles walked hungry hands along the planes of Erik’s back, up and down. _I like the weight. Knowing you’re here, and real, and wanting me to be yours…_  
  
Erik’s self-control trembled at the thought: Charles as his, yes, claimed and taken and marked with Erik’s mouth and hands and cock inside him, wild and sweet and untamed, the way a wolf would want him, a mate for life, now, belonging to Erik and Erik’s alone…  
  
His gaze, drinking in that spectacular body, landed on the barely-healed scar, shocking pink in the swirl of freckles on that chest.  
  
No. No, he couldn’t, he couldn’t, Charles was hurt, Charles was still fragile, had asked him to be careful…  
  
 _Erik_ , Charles said, sounding affectionately frustrated, _I’m not THAT fragile_ , and then wrapped both legs around Erik’s hips and put one hand into Erik’s hair and yanked him into a kiss, teeth grazing Erik’s bottom lip, not quite hard enough to draw blood.  
  
Erik actually growled out loud, at that. But softly. And then grabbed Charles’s hands and secured them firmly under his, on the mattress above waves of dark hair. _Better?_  
  
 _Well, not yet,_ Charles said, smirking impudently. _But I’ve a feeling you’re about to help me with that_. And then, just to make said feeling abundantly clear, pushed his hips upward, cock sliding along Erik’s like the embodiment of temptation.  
  
 _You’re making it very difficult for this to be gentle._  
  
 _I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not._  
  
 _No, you’re not, are you?_ He rolled to one side. After some consideration, tugged Charles’s wrists closer together, and kept them tightly held in just one of his hands. Charles gasped out loud. Erik spared a second to be thankful he had large hands. “Good?”  
  
“Yes…why are you…oh god.” _Erik—_  
  
 _Yes, Charles?_ He closed his spare hand more securely around Charles’s cock, stroked once, twice, slowly, luxuriously, enjoying the feel of it, the way the length of it grew even harder under his touch. Of course they’d done this, had had this, in shared thoughts, before. And that had been amazing, everything he’d never dreamed of,  in the years before or after Sebastian Shaw; but this, feeling Charles with all his senses, this was better.  
  
Besides, he knew what Charles liked, now. Knew precisely how to make this good.  
  
Charles whimpered, Erik’s name catching on his lips as Erik’s thumb dragged moisture out of him and across his tip, eyes huge and dark, and Erik thought about indulging _all_ the senses, and then bent down and _licked_ , and Charles shrieked his name in their heads, hips snapping up off the bed.  
  
 _Oh god Erik please—_  
  
 _Stay still_ , Erik admonished, not pausing, _you did say we needed to be careful, no sudden movements, so if you do that again I might have to stop—_  
  
 _No—no, I mean yes, I mean I’ll try, Erik, please don’t stop, right there, that—_  
  
 _That?_ Evidently _that_ could reduce Charles to incoherent babbling. Excellent.  
  
 _YES that…_ Charles made a disappointed sound when Erik shifted, preparatory to sitting up. _Where—what—_  
  
 _You did want me to…you were thinking about me inside you…unless you’d rather I just continue with this?_  
  
 _I don’t know!_  
  
Erik laughed. Went back to doing _that_ , with his tongue. _I did say I’d make this good for you. Is this good for you, Charles?_  
  
 _Oh god yes—_  
  
 _Don’t move, I said. Remember?_ He punctuated that reminder with a withdrawal, mouth sliding almost all the way off of Charles’s dripping cock, and for good measure brought one hand, four fingers, down firmly against an inner thigh, not quite a spank but harder than a simple tap.  
  
Charles gasped, “Erik—” and then visibly forced himself to go still and wait, trembling and wide-eyed and all their shared thoughts humming with need.  
  
“Really,” Erik mused, lips forming the words over Charles’s flushed skin, “you like that too, you want me to do that, to you, everything I was thinking…”  
  
 _Please._  
  
 _Not yet. You know you’re not—_ He stopped. Looked up. “Charles, you said you didn’t know if this would ever be—”  
  
“Better?” Charles lifted his head, panting a little. But not badly. Not the kind of terrifying breathlessness that would stop everything in a heartbeat. _Yes. I don’t know. But I don’t want to never have had this. And I wasn’t afraid of you when you were a wolf, and I’m not scared now. I’ll tell you if anything doesn’t feel right, if I need to stop and breathe, but I know what I want, and I want you. Everything you want to give me._  
  
Erik sat there gazing at him, for a second. Seeing again the blue eyes that’d met his, fearlessly, that first forest afternoon: if you’re going to growl at me I’m not going to help you…no, actually, I’m going to help you anyway, sorry, not the best first impression, is it, hello, by the way, I’m Charles, and you are?  
  
And now they’d made it here.  
  
Charles, lying there amid the haphazard tumble of blankets, smiled up at him, and didn’t bother to move the arms even though Erik’s grip on his wrists had loosened enough for him to try.  
  
 _You’re beautiful_ , Erik told him, softly. Not enough, but something.  
  
Charles blushed, pinkness washing through all the freckles in a wave, echoed in the sudden shyness in their heads; the blue eyes didn’t leave his, but Erik got the mental impression of averted gaze regardless: _no/not/not like you/too many scars for/but thank you/love you…_  
  
“Charles,” Erik told him, out loud, because honestly that was ridiculous, “honestly that’s ridiculous,” and then bent down and kissed him, gently, each one of those marks of old wounds and survival, and finally just below the newest one, not directly on it in case that might sting. Then ran his fingers up along the inside of one knee, right where Charles was most sensitive, because he knew that’d prompt a squirm and a telepathic yelp of _No tickling!,_ which it did.  
  
“Seriously no!”  
  
“You did say I could do everything I wanted, with you…”  
  
“That did _not_ explicitly include tickling!” But Charles was laughing now, eyes full of sunshine, banishing all the tendrils of insidious self-doubt. _I love you, you know._  
  
 _And I love you._ He sat up. “Do you have—do we have—”  
  
 _I love that you said we_. “Ah…there should be…oil, in that drawer…no, that one…I don’t even recall what’s in there, to be honest.”  
  
“…it’s been that long?”  
  
“Before you, I was…well. Preoccupied with trying to be a good monarch, I suppose.”  
  
 _You are!_  
  
 _Thank you_. “—and after you arrived, then…” Charles smiled up at him, sweet and sincere. “I didn’t want anyone else. Only you.”  
  
Erik came back to the bed and picked up the nearest hand and kissed it, for that. Fealty. Loyalty. A vow.  
  
 _…Charles?_  
  
 _Yes?_  
  
 _This is…rose-scented?_  
  
“So it is. I think that may’ve been a gift _…” I’m—sorry._  
  
 _For what?_ “I never said I’d be opposed to roses, Charles.”  
  
“For…the gifts, I think.” _My—you know I’ve slept with—you know I’m not a virgin, and you—_  
  
“Not recently, you said. No one else.” _I’ve never…I never knew what roses smelled of. As a human, I mean. This is…new. And it wasn’t open. You’ve never used it._  
  
“I…no, I never did…I did tell you. It’s been a long time.” _Is this—you don’t—_  
  
 _Mind? No. You’ve never done this before._  
  
 _I—_  
  
 _You’ve never done this with me._  
  
White roses, he thought. And incense, or spice. Something ridiculously opulent, lavish, and utterly ludicrously perfect, right here and now, with Charles in his arms, and nothing about this was the way they’d imagined, and everything about it was better than all the imagining.  
  
Despite all the adamant steel in his last statement, despite Charles’s dwindling hesitant embarrassment, he found himself wanting to laugh. With joy.  
  
Catching that thought, Charles pushed himself up on both elbows, eyes brilliant with exertion, with that same abrupt and shining laughter. “You’re right. You’re right, I’ve never done this, not with you.” _Together, then. With the ridiculous roses. I love you, Erik._  
  
“And I love you.” That wolf-instinct flare of possessiveness reared itself again: my mate, only mine, forever. Charles felt the full impact of it—Erik could tell—but simply smiled, lying back among the pillows, decadent and imperious, awaiting his Champion’s prowess.  
  
He spilled oil across his fingers, carefully. The liquid felt cool, splashing from old glass to warm skin, and the sweetness of richly spiced blooms billowed around them.  
  
 _May I—where would you like me to—_  
  
 _Here._ Charles showed him, in their joined thoughts: fingers sliding, moving, easing in, slick with oil, entering that most intimate of spaces. _Like this—_  
  
 _Like—this?_ He tested one at first, his own long finger, all knuckle and bone and awkwardly elegant human skin, pressing against that tiny bud of darkened pink. _Here?_  
  
 _Yes. More—a bit more oil, please—oh, yes, like that—_  
  
He stared. Mesmerized. His finger, disappearing inside Charles.  
  
 _Don’t stop, Erik, move—!_  
  
“Oh,” he said out loud, and then paused to kiss an impatient thigh, _apologies, Charles, you’re very distracting_ , and then, carefully, so carefully, a second finger, pressing in alongside the first, watching that muscle flutter and yield and give way for him.  
  
 _There_ , Charles gasped, _there, that—if you could just—_  
  
 _Oh, like this?_ He crooked the fingers. Pressed. Rubbed. Hard.  
  
Charles screamed his name. Fortunately only in their heads; Erik wasn’t sure the castle guardsmen wouldn’t be pounding up the stairs, otherwise.  
  
 _Charles—?_  
  
 _Oh—oh, Erik—oh, god—_  
  
“Ah. Good, then.” _I love you, Charles._  
  
 _I—I—_  
  
“Breathe,” Erik said, “just breathe, please,” and stopped the fingers from moving, for a second. _You said you’d tell me._  
  
Charles lay very still, panting, for a second. _I’m—I’m all right, yes, thank you—I just—_  
  
 _You are._  
  
“I am—I only nearly—my god, Erik, if this is the first time you’ve done this you must have some sort of secret diviner’s ability—” _Your FINGERS—_  
  
“Divination, hmm?” One more test of those abilities. Divination, indeed: seeking out and finding the exact spot, the hidden treasure, the wellspring beneath the surface. His fingers, stroking over that bundle of nerves.  
  
Charles didn’t even scream, this time. Wordless. Hips snapping up into his hand. _Erik, please, please—_  
  
“Please what? Do you want more? Like this?” _I believe as your Champion I should be pleasing YOU, Charles._  
  
“I—I can’t—I want—” _—YOU, Erik, I want you, I want to feel you inside me—_  
  
“Only if you can breathe properly. Lie still for a second.” _And then yes. Everything you want, everything we want, yes, but please—_  
  
“I know.” _I love you. I know._  
  
Erik knelt there above him, between those eagerly spread legs. Just looked, for a moment. Cinnamon freckles, gem-hued firelight, midnight-blue sheets that couldn’t compete with those endless eyes. The scent of roses and sugared tea. The tranquility of the air drifting over his skin. He wanted to speak, to say something about being honored, being grateful, being amazed. The words caught in his throat, tangled up with the love.  
  
Charles smiled, put both hands on Erik’s biceps, and tugged. Erik, not expecting the forcefulness, nearly fell down on top of him.  
  
“Wait—”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“Oh…all right, then.” He brushed one finger over that dark private space again, one final time, loving the way Charles twitched and shivered, muscles quivering and contracting at the barest suggestion of a touch.  
  
 _Do you want more?_  
  
 _I want you!_  
  
So he moved. Lined them up, carefully—Charles’s legs wrapped around his waist, and he held back with herculean self-control—and then pushed forward, and in.  
  
He’d known that Charles would feel incredible around him. Had felt them come together, in their heads. He’d thought he was prepared.  
  
But this was miraculous.  
  
Another slow thrust, himself sliding deeper into Charles’s body, that tight slick passage; Charles gasped, shivering, and clung to him, burying his face in Erik’s neck.  
  
 _Are you—_  
  
 _I’m all right, I’m just—you’re awfully large and it has been a while—_  
  
 _Do you want me to stop?_ That wasn’t quite pain, sparkling around the edges of their connection; but it was close, the deep burn of being stretched and filled and taken. _Talk to me. Please._  
  
 _No—I mean don’t stop—go on, more._  
  
 _Are you—_  
  
 _—certain? Yes._ Charles stopped breathing into his collarbone, uncurled slightly, met Erik’s eyes. Lifted his hips. _Yes, please, more_.  
  
More. He slid out, an inch or two; back in, further, as drawn-out as he could make it, while Charles moaned his name amid other words, swearing in their heads at the slowness, completely debauched and filthy and demanding that Erik hurry up right the fuck now—  
  
“Patience,” Erik said, and ran a hand down his chest, over his stomach, resting the palm over that trail of dark springy hair that would lead to Charles’s beautifully swollen cock. _If_ Erik decided to touch him there.  
  
 _Please_ , Charles answered, practically delirious with need, with the sensation of Erik’s hand on his skin, too much and not enough all at once, trembling on the edge of the supernova. _Please, Erik, please, oh fuck—_  
  
“Since when do you have such a filthy mouth, Charles?” He touched a fingertip, just one, to the wet tip, smearing fluid over flushed skin, that leaking slit, blood-heated firmness that sang of iron to his senses. Charles groaned, deep and low, and jerked hips up, pleading wordlessly.  
  
He moved the finger. Set it on those enticing lips, red where teeth had been biting into flesh, containing mute and hungry expressions of want. _I can think of better uses for that mouth._  
  
He wouldn’t’ve dared—not this, not for their first time—but he _knew_ how Charles would react, knew it through their link, through those telepathic climaxes, through the trembling of want he could feel beneath him. They both knew.  
  
And so, when Charles opened his mouth and let Erik slide that wet finger inside, making him taste himself and his desire, they both quivered with need, with demand, with surrender.  
  
“Eyes open,” Erik whispered, and Charles lifted those dark eyelashes and met his gaze, blue like the deepest heart of the universe, and then swirled his tongue around Erik’s finger, in his mouth, licking it clean.  
  
And he couldn’t wait, they couldn’t wait, and when he moved this time it was harder, faster, his cock sinking all the way home in one swift plunge that made Charles gasp around his hand. The last rational shred of Erik’s brain thought, Charles, breathing, and pulled the hand away and found those tempting wrists again and anchored them to the bed, and Charles was moving with him, finding that perfect rhythm, Erik’s cock hitting that electric spot every time, the sensations exploding through their thoughts, and each thrust was perfect, the slick clench of muscles and the hoarse little cries and the friction, everywhere—  
  
One last thrust, hardest of all, himself sheathed deep inside of Charles, who arched up against him, head falling back onto the pillows, every muscle pulsing around him, crying his name—  
  
And the world went white and ecstatic, around them.  
  
Very, very gradually, he became aware of his own breathing. Of the sweat and stickiness and heat of their bodies, messy and tangled up in each other, his cock still buried in Charles’s sensitive hole, stretched and plundered and slick.  
  
Of Charles, who was clinging to him, face hidden in Erik’s neck despite all the aforementioned sweat, arms wrapped around his back, and trembling.  
  
 _Charles_ , he panted, and pushed himself up on elbows; Charles made a sound, and shut those glorious eyes, hands tightening blindly over Erik’s back.  
  
 _Charles? I love you. Please—please talk to me?_ Did I hurt you, he meant to ask. Couldn’t make himself say the words.  
  
He could feel his cock softening, slipping, inside that loosened space, wet with himself now along with the oil. Somehow that felt more intimate than anything before. Himself, his climax, his seed, inside Charles. Filling him up, claiming him, dripping out over pale thighs.  
  
 _Oh_ , Charles said, breathless, and shivered again. _Erik—that—you—_  
  
 _Hmm?_ He moved a hand, in the wake of that quick euphoric shudder. Found Charles’s cock, spent but still half-hard, caught between them, sloppy with orgasm. Wrapped his hand around it; rubbed the ball of his thumb, firmly, over that wet open spot.  
  
Charles sobbed his name, and twitched beneath him, one final time, one last exhausted spurt of liquid drawn out of his aching cock, and Erik held him, then, while the aftershocks rippled through them both.  
  
Eventually, he had to ask. Charles blinked at him, eyes like bliss-drenched tropical seas in the night, improbable and fantastic. _I love you, Erik._  
  
 _And I love you_. “Was that…are you…all right?” He thought so—Charles felt utterly weary, in their link, but not dangerously so, and was broadcasting sleepy fulfillment everywhere around them—but he did have to ask. To be sure.  
  
“Yes,” Charles said, and smiled. _Yes. In so many ways, Erik, yes, I love you, yes—_  
  
 _Shh. Breathe. I know._ He smoothed unruly hair, damp with exertion, out of those eyes. “We ought to…clean up? So that you can rest?”  
  
“So that _we_ can rest.” Charles started to sit up; Erik pushed him back down. “Stay put.”  
  
“We ought to change these sheets…”  
  
“I’ll do it. In a minute.” The metal tub, in the other room, was full of water; it’d been hot earlier when Erik’d requested the bath on Charles’s behalf, soothing heat to pull tension out of easily-tired muscles. It’d cooled off, forgotten and unused, but it was the work of a second and some finely-tuned encouragement of metal to make the water steam invitingly.  
  
“Have you ever changed sheets before? I can help.”  
  
“Have you?”  
  
“Yes, actually.” Charles sat up, mostly on his own but with Erik’s arm behind him just in case. “I used to—when I was younger, I didn’t want anyone to know, after he—never mind. I have, yes.”  
  
He, Erik thought. And then felt his muscles tense, unordered, in absolute rage, at the belated comprehension. Charles was _his_. No one else’s, not anyone out of memory, the person who’d hurt his mate so very badly—  
  
 _Erik! Don’t._ Charles reached out a hand, touched Erik’s cheek. _Don’t. I’m all right_. “I am. This…with you…I rather like being your mate, you know.”  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Erik said, a little muffled because he was now hiding his face in all of Charles’s affectionate hair. “It’s a wolf thing, Charles, honestly. But you aren’t—you don’t have to say—”  
  
“Compromises,” Charles said, and smiled, and that smile was magnificently real. “I’ve made you my Champion, I can certainly be a werewolf’s mate…are you joining me in that bath?” _And then we can change the sheets. And you can hold me while we sleep, and tomorrow…_  
  
 _Tomorrow…_ He kissed the top of that head, and then, when Charles looked up, those lips, for good measure. Didn’t ask whether Charles was sure, about accompanying them. Didn’t try to suggest that those injured-sapphire eyes remain safe and protected at home, while Erik and the guardsmen went into battle. Didn’t say any of those words, even though his heart ached with the need to, so badly he thought it might break apart and fall to pieces in his chest.  
  
He said, “I’ll be there. At your side. We’ll face Shaw together. Tomorrow.”  
  
Charles kissed him, this time, the scent of roses and skin and sex and steam-heated water lazily permeating the air. Said, with conviction, _yes_.


	10. Act Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Erik and Charles (and all the guardsmen) face Shaw, on a beach, in the sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for character death (of a villain) in this chapter! Also, despite the cliffhanger, there's a happy ending. I promise. I wouldn't do that to Erik and Charles. One more chapter, I think, unless that one gets ridiculously long and wants to be two!

Ten: _now listen to how well he avenged himself!_  
  
A glittering day. The sky was hard and bright as sapphires above them; not the kind compassionate treasure of blue eyes, Erik thought, but the sort of cruel jewels that men would die and kill for. Charles, possibly hearing that thought, glanced sideways at him, with a small smile.  
  
They were lying in cover, back in the trees, distant enough to remain undetected by Lord Shaw’s forces, or at least that was the plan. Charles had blithely assured everyone that he could shield them if necessary; Erik, looking at the lines of strain around his eyes from the simple act of riding on horseback, wasn’t so sure, and had moved said horses back, ostensibly on the grounds of better defensive positioning.  
  
Shaw’s cove was beautiful. Dimly, Erik felt that this was unfair; it should be an ugly place, as warped and twisted as the man using it. Shouldn’t have golden sand and blue waves and sunshine. Even the breeze felt tropical.  
  
 _If it makes you feel any better_ , Charles murmured, _there are two English war galleons, three Spanish ships, and one from France, all converging on each other out at sea. Shaw’s planning to attack each of them, unseen; his ship’s built for that. To convince them all to open hostilities._  
  
Oddly, that did help. Violence, power, games of strength: Erik could handle those. He could certainly handle cannon fire and the arrows of English-made longbows.  
  
 _My werewolf_ , Charles sighed, amused, resigned. _What do you want to do? They’ve not departed yet; I can feel them, the crew, down there on the beach…_  
  
 _Shaw?_  
  
 _I can’t…_ Charles hesitated. Their private conversation wavered, stretched, expanded: Charles looping more minds into the discussion. _He’s wearing…a helmet, Lady Frost mentioned it…it blocks my telepathy. I won’t be able to influence him._  
  
Raven said something extremely impolite. So did Erik.  
  
Charles winced, though probably only Erik could see it. He instantly wanted to apologize—he knew how much Charles hated being weak and useless—but that elegant voice was already moving on _. I may not be able to influence him, but I can feel where he is, or rather where he isn’t; I can…sense the void, if you’d like to think of it that way. He’s on the ship right now—checking inventory, perhaps?—the man with him is thinking very clearly about underwater harpoons and even more clearly about venison and bread and ale. Oh—well, now I’M hungry, damn…_  
  
Wordlessly, Erik fished around in a pocket. Held out a piece of dried and candied pineapple. Charles blinked.  
  
Erik, who wasn’t going to explain that one—Charles could think of it as tactical soundness if he liked, sugar and sweetness keeping his strength up for the battle to come, and not at all because Erik had been so afraid throughout those first long days when Charles’d been too exhausted to eat more than a few bites of anything—said, _Are you waiting for me to feed you by hand?_ And Charles laughed, and said, ruefully, affectionately, _Thank you, love_ , and accepted the offering.  
  
Raven rolled her eyes. Hank watched her do so, with an expression that suggested he might be wishing he’d brought along her favorite food as well. Sean inquired, oblivious, _Is there enough to share?_  
  
The breeze blew along the treeline, ruffling leaves.   
  
Two of the guards, down on the sand by Shaw’s looming warship, turned to look up, caught by the movement, perhaps, or simply idly scanning.  
  
Charles blinked again, and they turned away.  
  
Erik reached over and put a hand on his shoulder, knowing it wouldn’t help enough but knowing the gesture would be appreciated regardless. Charles exhaled, and closed those seawater eyes for a moment, at the touch.  
  
The ride out had been difficult. They’d covered the distance rapidly, two long days’ march. The guardsmen were all eager, resolute; Raven’s face set with determination, when she looked at her brother. Erik guessed that she saw Shaw’s machinations, the assassination plot, the face behind that unhealing wound. He could sympathize.  
  
When the horses’d been brought around, everyone swinging into saddles, preparing to set off, he’d noticed Charles standing quietly beside his, one hand gently caressing a wet equine nose while the mare snuffled and snorted into his palm. Charles had paused, not mounted yet, leaning against her sleek bulk; Erik, thankful that he’d stayed human all morning and wouldn’t smell too alarmingly wolf-like, had come carefully over to his side.  
  
“Need a hand?” It was possible. The beast was quite a bit bigger than Charles’s pocket-sized height.  
  
“I used to be a good rider,” Charles said, not quite looking at him.  
  
“What,” Erik said, after an infinitesimal pause, “did you forget how?”   
  
And Charles had laughed. Had let Erik boost him into the saddle, assistance he didn’t _completely_ need, and had smiled in their heads, wind-blown, happy, surprised.   
  
Erik had run much of the way in wolf-shape, also happy; he was himself again, the bright sharp taste of green grass and the scents of other animals, feral woods-cats and sturdy palace horseflesh, around him; with Charles’s brilliance ringing in his head, alert and delighted and exuberant with freedom from an invalid’s chair and confining castle walls.  
  
When that exuberance had, inevitably, begun to tire, Erik had caught the licorice-bitter weariness almost before Charles himself did; had shapeshifted back to human, skin stretching and shivering, grabbed clothing out of the saddlebags, swung himself up to ride double, and said, calmly, “I just felt like getting my arms around you, Charles,” and the corners of that expressive mouth had quirked from the beginnings of self-loathing into a genuine smile.  
  
They’d slept in each other’s arms, Erik trying his best to be a bulwark against the cold, against each knobby root and unsympathetic bit of ground. Charles had kissed him briefly, and fallen asleep with his head on Erik’s chest, worn out and uncomplaining. Erik’d thought _Shaw_ , and _vengeance_ , and then _Charles_ and _love_ , and had finally slept too, troubling dreams in which faceless men swept into his mother’s house and carried Charles away into red-rocked craters the color of dried blood, hiding him where Erik could never see.  
  
 _Love you_ , Charles said softly in the present. Set his fingers over Erik’s.  
  
And then, _Oh! They’re moving—_  
  
They were. The figures emerged from the bowels of Shaw’s ship—a lean, cruel-lined thing, like her master—and descended to the sand.  
  
Erik knew that walk. That shape. That man. Knew everything Shaw’d done.  
  
Everything.  
  
He wasn’t aware that he was in motion until he was running, the warmth of Charles’s hand still lingering on his skin, but the goal all-encompassing now. Shaw. So close.   
  
His vision narrowed with it, and the iron ore of the earth sang.  
  
He knocked the first guards sideways without looking—they really shouldn’t carry swords—and slid down the hill to the beach, and then froze, because Charles was in motion too, behind him, running _after_ him—  
  
 _You idiot!_ he shouted, not sure which one of them he meant, and spun around and flung himself that direction.   
  
Charles actually made it down the hill, assisted by gravity and selective blinding of adversaries’ perceptions; he was breathless and barely upright, but he stumbled into Erik’s arms and shouted back _Don’t ever do that to me again!_ with enough force to stagger them both, and Erik grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down behind the nearest protective sand-dune.  
  
 _You could’ve been killed!_  
  
 _So could you!_ Charles retorted, which was nonsensical, because Erik was the one of them who could deflect arrows, could stop cannon-fire, could yank shields from their owners’ hands; Charles was gazing at him with mutinous stubbornness in those blue eyes, gasping for air, and Erik bit his lip and forcibly stopped his hands from leaving terrified bruises on those shoulders.  
  
 _We’re doing this together,_ Charles said, panting, determined. _You don’t get to go without me._  
  
 _Charles—_  
  
 _How would you feel, if I’d done what you did?_ Footsteps, in the sand near their hiding-place; Erik tensed, prepared to snap necks or hurl swords, but Charles said _No!_ loudly enough to make him pause, and the footsteps turned back.   
  
_They’ve not killed anyone. Shaw recruited them with promises of gold. For their families._  
  
Erik said a few obscenities that would’ve made his mother blush, and then demanded, _what do you want me to do, then?_  
  
Charles somehow managed to smile sunnily at him for that. Erik wanted to scream. Settled for a crackle of annoyance, quick as a whip, and let Charles feel it.  
  
 _Sorry. You can still go after Shaw. I know you want him; I’m not averse to you doing so, believe me, love, and I won’t say be careful, though—_ A hesitation; Erik wondered what those blue eyes’d originally meant to say. _—I will ask you to wait until I’ve handled some of the guards. I should be able to, er, suggest that most of them go to sleep, though as soon as I do Shaw will notice so I’d advise you to be quick—_  
  
 _When?_  
  
 _Right about…five seconds from now, I should think._ Charles breathed in, closed his eyes; Erik said, _Wait._  
  
 _Hmm?_  
  
 _You—you can feel where we all are, from here, correct? You don’t need to see, to see us?_  
  
 _I suppose not—_  
  
 _Then stay here. Stay safe. For me._ He stopped. Took the closest hand. Fumbled one last piece of pineapple into it. _Please_.   
  
Charles met his gaze, and nodded.  
  
 _Five seconds, then. Here…_ Eyes not quite shut, this time, but abruptly elsewhere, looking into infinity. Places Erik couldn’t follow, couldn’t see.  
  
 _…three, two…one…go. Now._  
  
He jumped up, at his king’s command, and ran.  
  
Sleeping bodies lay scattered across the sand like fallen leaves. He paid them no mind. He trusted Charles.  
  
Shaw saw him coming—certainly felt him coming, as Erik’s fury reached out and twisted nails, jerked at them until they came free of smooth timbers with agonized screeching. The ship shuddered and groaned.  
  
Shaw, standing on the sand, raised an eyebrow. Waved a hand; Erik felt the puff of air—that teleporter, behind him—and ducked, reflexes sharper than human. Kicked backwards, connecting; the other man vanished in a startled plume of air.  
  
The rest of their strike force’d caught up by now. There was more fighting, happening around him. Whirlwinds of water and sand and sea-breeze. Absently, he knocked away stray arrows. Advanced.   
  
Shaw looked thoughtful, from under his helmet—something positively hideous, none of the elegance of classical armor, all dull metal that throbbed sickly to Erik’s senses, slimy and inhibiting—and then there was another flash of red, and he was gone. Teleported. Erik wanted to howl.  
  
Charles, in their heads, had continued authoritatively directing everyone, focused and clear and cheerfully irritated at all the distractions: _Sean, left—no, the OTHER left—Angel, could you take out the ship’s sails, and when you get a chance help Hank with the—oh, Raven’s got it, never mind—_  
  
 _Charles_ , Erik shouted back, _where’s Shaw?_ and let Charles feel, under that, the wild flash of exhilaration, appreciation, admiration: Charles in his element, directing thoughts like instruments in a symphony, weaving them all together and making them cohere.  
  
 _Thank you—He’s over here—_ A starburst of vision, or anti-vision: a black hole, nothingness, a space where Charles couldn’t see. _It’s the helmet, sorry—I can’t be more exact—but I can feel where the emptiness is—_  
  
Beside the ship. Waiting. Erik sprinted that direction, the swarm of liberated nails and arrowheads and daggers humming behind him like warrior bees.  
  
Under the furious buzz of rage and _finally finally finally_ in his head, he heard Charles sending assistance his way, Alex and Raven; Erik yelled back, _Don’t you dare, they’re guarding you, Charles!!_ and outdistanced them.  
  
Something was happening, behind him; he didn’t bother to turn until one of Alex’s energy emissions flared past him, right at Shaw, and then he started to shout Charles’s name, betrayed, but Alex was shouting too, the name of one of the other guards, Armando.  
  
Erik knew Armando, not well but in passing, the way he knew most of Charles’s guardsmen; he’d liked the tall quiet dark-skinned man, who regarded the chaos of the castle with an calm expression of unshakeable contented loyalty.  
  
Shaw laughed at Alex; said, “I would’ve killed him anyway, but this is sweeter, this is _your_ power,” and put out a hand and caught the light that should’ve burned his flesh away, cradling it in a palm.  
  
And then he spun and flung it into Armando’s unprotected back.  
  
The guardsman shivered, skin cracking, glowing, struggling to contain, absorb, adapt, and for a pair of heartbeats all the fighting slowed, as if the world itself were curious whether he’d succeed.  
  
And then he came apart, from the inside.  
  
Little bits of ash drifted to the sand, after.  
  
“No!” Alex was screaming. “No, you bastard, you _killed_ him—” and Shaw said mildly, “You are aware of what I _do_ , why you’re _here_ , young man,” and those words, that _tone_ , and Erik found himself in wolf-shape, growling, snarling, fur bristling with grief.  
  
Shaw had hurt the pack. His pack. His mate, who’d be feeling that loss from the inside too, touching all their minds as he was—  
  
Quite suddenly, perplexingly, Charles said, _He’s not dead!!_  
  
 _…what?_  
  
 _He’s not—he adapted, I knew he could, he did, this is brilliant—_  
  
 _How?_ Erik demanded.  
  
 _I don’t know—he’s only going to be incorporeal for a while but we can live with that—oh, that would’ve been a good pun if I’d timed it right, but I didn’t—_ Charles, personal safety forgotten, had run forward at Armando’s apparent demise; he’d had the good sense to duck behind a fallen chunk of ship, but was closer to the fighting than Erik liked.  
  
 _Get back to your sand dune!_  
  
 _I can’t, not now—that teleporter saw me move, and I’m masking myself from his perceptions but he’ll notice if I stir up sand, and I don’t think I can run again, I’m sorry—_  
  
Erik cursed again.  
  
 _Go on, I’ll be fine here!_  
  
He might be, or he might not; Erik stomped wolf’s-feet in an agony of indecision.  
  
 _He’s distracted by Alex, go now!_ Charles said. _You’re my Champion, aren’t you? And I’m telling you to leave me, Erik, and go after Shaw!_  
  
He hated the thought with every possessive protective fiber of his being, but he _wanted_ to. And Charles wanted him to.   
  
So he went.  
  
Back to human, to run up the broken timbers of the fallen ship, on her side on the sand like a beached and useless whale, summoning armor on the way; Shaw was glaring now, no longer composed.  
  
“You do seem awfully determined. Do I know you?”  
  
“Yes,” Erik said, soft, purposeful. “Yes, you do.”  
  
“One of my children, perhaps? There were so many, over the years.” Shaw sighed. “Only a handful ever escaped; Emma, of course, came to work for me. I thought we’d tracked down or disposed of all the others. Which one were you?”  
  
“The one who’s going to kill you,” Erik told him.  
  
“Kill me? Hardly. Inconvenience me, perhaps. The loss of the ship, the loss of Emma—I’m assuming you had some hand in that, being here with the Xavier boy, and I do know he’s here, I know where all the gifted children are, and several of his pets are fighting my men right now—I’ll have to begin again. Still. Not the worst possible outcome.”  
  
 _The other ships, the English and the French and so on—they’re at a stalemate, if no one fires, without orders, they’ll go home—I’m suggesting that they should do that now—_ Charles sounded winded, even in their heads; Erik wondered how much it was taking out of him, to reach across that distance, to stay in contact with all of their group. _I think we’ve averted international conflict at least—_  
  
 _We’re not leaving without Shaw._  
  
 _Oh no of course not I only thought you should know—_  
  
Of course Charles would care about the larger scale, the possible greater upheaval of the world. Erik did too, in theory, in the abstract. But right now he could only see the man who’d tortured him, and others like him. Who’d killed his parents. Burned his home.  
  
“That power…” Shaw mused. “I do know you. The wolf boy who could talk to metal. But you should have been dead; I’m quite sure I left bodies around for you to be blamed for, and I know there were wolf hunts; not as if you could explain yourself to—ah. Of course you could, to a telepath; how do you like being Charles Xavier’s lapdog, then?”  
  
He knew he was being baited. He answered anyway. Had to be said. “I am not anyone’s lapdog. Not his. And not _yours_.”  
  
“Of course you are. Do you sleep in his bed? At his feet, perhaps? How very loyal.”  
  
He was aware that he was grinding his teeth. The bits of metal spun and ground against each other, too, frustrated, futile, enraged. Charles spared the time to send him a quick mental caress, light and swift and reassuring: _yes, of course you’re loyal to me, and I am to you, you know that, Erik—_  
  
 _I know._  
  
“I’m his Champion,” Erik said, aloud, for them all to hear. “And he trusts me when I say that you need to die. That I need to kill you.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Shaw said, laughing, and waved a hand, and collected energy burst and sizzled back at Erik threefold; he grabbed the nearest sword and flung it in front of him, deflecting with a thought, with his power, the power Shaw’d wanted from him, and even though he knew it’d be futile he tried hurling the metal back at those mocking eyes anyway—  
  
Shaw was still laughing, even as cool calculating eyes slid to one side, and a lazy hand sent the sword tumbling in one specific direction.  
  
Charles’s pain exploded through the link, red and orange and white as a sun imploding.  
  
Before he could react, though, the supernova abruptly vanished, locked tightly down and out of their heads, where the agony wouldn’t interfere. Angel, who’d wobbled in the sky, straightened, looking dazed; Sean, who’d been running up on Erik’s left, regained his balance.  
  
 _I’m all right!_ Charles said, _I’m all right, it’s only a scratch, it’s only my arm—_ And while that wasn’t the whole truth, Erik was entirely certain, it was at least true enough for now; Charles was letting him feel that too.  
  
 _I love you_ , he whispered, and then very carefully took all of his newfound icy outrage—Charles was _hurt_ —and shaped it into a weapon, into strength. Shaw had to die.  
  
 _That helmet—_ Charles sounded a bit distracted.   
  
_I know, I’m trying—_  
  
 _If you can surprise him—_  
  
 _I KNOW!_  
  
Across the sand, he stared at Shaw. Who said, “Young Erik Lehnsherr,” out loud, and shook his head, indulgent, disbelieving, paternal. “Here and fighting as yourself. I’m so proud.”  
  
“You have nothing to be proud of.” In the background, Charles was saying something else: _Azazel, is it, can you please stop that leaping around, it’s terribly hard to focus on you—no, I’m quite serious, I’d like to talk—I don’t know why people always ask me that, I’m very certain I’m real—_  
  
“On the contrary. I have everything to be proud of.” Shaw waved a hand, expansively. Sunlight sparkled from the helmet. Menacing sunlight; somehow it even managed that, associated with Shaw.  
  
“You’re a weapon, Erik. What I always knew you could be. Stronger, more powerful, capable of anything…you are what you are because I encouraged you. Showed you that you could be better than human. Better than anyone. You’re a werewolf, and gifted, and extraordinary, Erik. And here you are.”  
  
“You tortured me,” Erik said, flatly. But some small voice in the back of his head rang with it: he _wasn’t_ human, of course. Never would be.   
  
He could sleep in Charles’s bed and be accepted there; he did know that.  
  
But the rest of the world wasn’t Charles. And even the guardsmen had looked at him with suspicion, on first meeting.  
  
Shaw’s helmet was slippery. He couldn’t get a good grasp on it; even the sense of it was like an illness, a distorting miasma. He tried again. Told himself that he was trying as hard as he could. Everything Charles had shown him, joy and delight and passionate determination. Not Shaw’s powerful crude rage, so warped and dark. And so strong, when strength was necessary.  
  
He _was_ trying. The metal twisted under his incorporeal touch, eel-like, and resisted.  
  
“I may have been a bit crude in my methods, I’ll admit.” Shaw inclined his head. “We could change that, you and I. Remake the world, the way you wish it made.”  
  
Charles, Erik thought, but Charles was busy, saying _No you needn’t obey him that’s what I’m saying if you’d just please listen_ to, presumably, Azazel, all that persuasive power brought to bear over there.  
  
“No,” he said. No.  
  
And in their heads Charles said, still to Azazel, _no, he has NO hold over you, I’m sorry to tell you but your sister is…well, she’s been gone for quite some time, I’m afraid, Lady Frost knew where the, er, burial took place—_ And suddenly the end of the fighting, around them, stopped.   
  
_Shaw had her killed_ , Charles said, gently. _He thought she was weak, you see. She was gifted, but not strongly enough to be of any use to him._  
  
One more death. One girl none of them had known. And a brother who’d never gotten to say goodbye.  
  
Sebastian Shaw was the sort of man who would order that death. Charles, on the other hand, said the words with a sense of incalculable loss, genuine grief, sorrow for every life he might’ve saved or felt from a distance or seen flickering out.  
  
 _I love you_ , Erik said, not loudly but very clear, and pulled Shaw’s helmet off with a single forceful thought.  
  
Charles’s attention spun their way like a lighthouse beacon, the whole force of it, not merely the little corner nestled in the back of Erik’s mind; everyone on the beach felt the impact, when Shaw froze in place.  
  
 _I love you_ , Charles said back. _Do it now; make it clean_.  
  
Clean. But Shaw didn’t deserve clean. Shaw deserved bloody, and vicious, and violent.  
  
Four arrows slammed themselves into four limbs, knocking Shaw to the ground; someone gasped. Charles’s control didn’t waver, despite the creeping indigo-bittersweet edge of concern. _Erik—_  
  
 _This is my vengeance, Charles, not yours_. He stretched, twisting himself into wolf-shape; was gratified by the fear dawning behind those eyes. Let Shaw feel his animal breath, hot and heavy, for a moment; then, after some deliberation, closed his jaws over the man’s nose. Bit down.  
  
Groans, in the background, and the hot sticky coppery taste of blood; vengeance, he thought again, and metal. Suffering.   
  
Back to human, so that he could talk, wiping blood from his lips with the back of his hand, smearing redness over his skin. Charles was shouting at him, distantly; he ignored it, despite the tiny nagging feeling that he might regret doing so.  
  
Charles hadn’t stopped him, yet. Was still holding Shaw. In place. Immobile.  
  
“I am yours,” Erik said, softly. “What you made me. I never won’t be. But I am myself, now. And I am better; better than _you_.”  
  
And Shaw laughed, horribly, blood-clotted. Shook his head, slowly, and though he couldn’t talk the expression was plain in his eyes: a sort of satisfaction, as if Erik’d proved him right, as if he’d known all along.  
  
 _Erik_ , Charles whispered, _I asked you once not to feel that satisfaction either._  
  
 _You asked me to make it quick. He doesn’t merit that._  
  
 _Do I?_ Charles said, very low. And then, instantly, covering up the words, such that Erik couldn’t stop to process them in the flood, _you said we could be better. That means that we ARE. Even to our enemies. You can end this right now._  
  
 _I could, yes._  
  
 _You could. Yes._  
  
Erik looked back at his enemy, drenched in blood and vengeance and pain. Felt Charles in the back of his head, wounded and also in pain and determined and incandescent with love.  
  
And then he reached into all the little blood vessels, bubbling so freely, full of iron, and made them stop flowing. Cleanly. Quickly. And Shaw was dead, lying there on the sand.  
  
And the world was very silent.  
  
The sun drifted, sliding behind a cloud.  
  
Erik turned, in the sudden dusk, and saw Raven’s shocked face, and Hank running, and Sean with one hand over his mouth to hold back a scream, and then he realized that the silence wasn’t a choice, wasn’t Charles slipping away and giving him the space of his triumph.  
  
It wasn’t that at all.  
  
He’d have no memory, later, of throwing himself across pale golden sand and down on his knees at Charles’s side. No memory of the steps between Shaw’s crumpled body, blood-soaked and abandoned, and the _other_ body.  
  
The sun was very hot, out from under its cloud and ghoulishly curious now, beating down on his head. The freckled fingers, in his, were cold.  
  
“No,” he said. “No, Charles, please, I love you,” because Charles would answer him, had to answer him, always answered when he said those words.   
  
Charles didn’t move. No color left in that skin, beneath all the freckles. They shone in vivid cinnamon and gold, stranded amid whiteness.  
  
“No,” he said again, holding Charles’s cold hand. No. This wasn’t right, couldn’t be right, Charles couldn’t be gone. Charles was the strongest person Erik had ever, ever known, the best person, the most courageous, the most perfect even though he was also the most stubborn and would of course do something ridiculous and self-sacrificial like not tell anyone if he knew he was about to die—  
  
Make it quick, Charles’d asked. He doesn’t deserve quick, Erik’d answered. And Charles had said, Do I?  
  
His king. And Erik was his Champion, had sworn that, had sworn to live for him and fight for him and die for him and love him.  
  
The sun burned, scorching his skin. His eyes watered. The taste of blood, in his mouth, was sickening now.  
  
Hank was rubbing one of those unmoving hands, trying to peel open closed eyelids, tearing off fabric to bandage Charles’s bleeding arm—it was indeed worse than just a scratch, Erik’s brain confirmed irrelevantly, unsurprisedly, though not as bad as he’d thought it might be from that brief burst of pain. Ordering water, which Sean ran up with from the ship, some sort of plundered supplies. Requesting wine, fire, herbs, sharp scents to nudge him back to wakefulness if possible. Nothing worked. Nothing changed.  
  
Charles was breathing, if shallowly. Breathing, pulse beating faintly in his veins, though it took Hank several agonizing moments to confirm that fact. But nothing else. Nothing in Erik’s head, where there’d once been laughing green-grass warmth and the taste of sugared tea.  
  
Azazel, the teleporter, and the silent man holding his hand—the one who’d only moments before been summoning whirlwinds—eyed their grief uneasily. Charles would’ve known what to say, what to do, to make them welcome. Erik couldn’t care.  
  
 _Charles_ , he whispered, kneeling on the sunlit sand with his heart stretched out bleeding before him. He wanted to say so many things. I’m sorry. I was tempted, I listened to Shaw for a moment, only for a moment, but I let him hurt you. I’m sorry for every time I ever let you be hurt. I’ll never leave you and I’ll never be sorry I’m here with you, as long as it takes to bring you back, whatever it takes, I promise, I love you…  
  
Charles wouldn’t hear him. Not now.  
  
He said all the words anyway, voicelessly, through the tears. Knew they’d get no response, and was proven right.  
  
“What can we do,” Raven was saying, brokenly, “there must be something we can do, there has to be…” Hank, looking up at her, was silent.  
  
Erik swallowed. Hard. Said, “We should go back. To the castle.”  
  
“You—” Raven spun her tear-streaked gaze to him, furiously. “How can you be so _calm_ —”  
  
“I’m not.” He wasn’t. Inside everything screamed, gaping hollow and mute and devastated. But Charles would want them all to be safe. To be protected. “Shaw’s dead. His ship’s in ruins. Charles—took care of the international situation. There’s nothing else to be done here. And…” He glanced up. Found Azazel’s eyes. “You’re welcome to return with us. It’s. Charles would’ve. The castle will be a safe haven. You have my word.”  
  
And he got a nod, in reply. Then, unexpectedly, heavily accented: “May we take you? Will be quicker. Less discomfort for…him.”  
  
Erik nodded, despite Raven’s expression. Charles had trusted Azazel to do the right thing, to stop the fighting; Erik would trust him now.  
  
“We should be landing in throne room. I have been there before.” Which was the exact wrong statement; even Hank looked murderous, and Angel opened her mouth, preparing to spit fire.  
  
“Enough,” Erik snapped. “That’s…fine. That will be fine. No arguments.” The guardsmen still looked mutinous, which he understood, but they linked hands when directed without questioning his authority, and Erik cradled Charles in his arms and deliberately didn’t dwell on the way that head fell limply against his shoulder.  
  
He said, to their newfound ally, “Take us all home,” and in a puff of air the beach and the blood and the bodies, all but one, all but the weight in Erik’s arms, vanished away.


	11. Act Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The post-Shaw fall-out; protective Erik, hurt Charles, and a vast amount of hurt/comfort, in equal measure.

Eleven: _“my lord, on the days when you go away from me/ I’m so troubled, so sad at heart, so afraid I’ll lose you…”_  
  
They landed hard, in the throne room; landed hard, and a foot above the actual floor, such that the flightless bodies among them went sprawling. Angel fluttered tattered wings; Erik, panicked, did— _something_ , with a twist at the magnetic lines of the earth and a frantic clutch at Charles, and ended up barely hovering above the stone.  
  
“Since when can _you_ fly?” grumbled Sean, from the floor.  
  
“Sorry,” Azazel said. “Many people.”  
  
“You—”  
  
“Erik,” Charles said.  
  
And the whole universe stopped, around them.  
  
It didn’t really, of course. They continued breathing, and the aged stone was unyielding beneath their weight.  
  
But it felt like that, regardless.  
  
“Charles,” Erik said, still holding him, always holding him, as time stretched out around the empty tapestried hall. “ _Charles_ —”  
  
“Yes,” Charles said, and then shut his eyes again, head on Erik’s shoulder. “And no. I’m sorry—”  
  
Sorry? Charles was alive; sorry for what?  
  
The hangings along the walls fluttered as doors slammed back, courtiers and guardsmen rushing in, and a babble of voices erupting. Charles didn’t flinch at the cacophony, which was even more alarming.  
  
“Charles,” Erik whispered again, caught between astonished wonder and agonizing fear with each heartbeat. “I love you.”  
  
“Love you,” Charles breathed, into his shirt. “But, Erik…”  
  
“But what? Look at me. Please.” He was being tugged by Hank towards the infirmary; with Charles in his arms, he took steps that direction, while the heartache dragged at his feet. Those blue eyes weren’t quite focused, not settling on his, seeking something off in the distance instead and not finding it.  
  
And the world was still too voiceless. The little once-warm space in his head, that happy tendril of contented presence like the connection of fingertips across distance, was empty, and cold, and dim.  
  
Charles, he thought, with all his might, knowing before the confirmation, knowing while fighting against the knowledge with every particle of his being, wanting to scream into the void at the injustice of it.  
  
And Charles didn’t react. Didn’t hear him.  
  
Charles did say, softly, “You can put me down, I can stand.” And Erik’s fast-splintering heart nearly gave up, then.  
  
“I am not going to—Charles, you nearly—I can’t—”  
  
“I don’t need the infirmary.” Charles had continued to not quite look at him. At anyone.  
  
The breeze blew icily through the open doors, and swirled cruelly around the throne room, and their tiny bedraggled knot of bodies.  
  
“Charles,” Hank said, “you need to rest, you’re hurt…”  
  
“Rest won’t fix this,” Charles said, and even the few remaining people who’d not realized, before, abruptly understood.  
  
That voice, again. So expressive. Right now it was expressing grief and horror and unspeakable loss, in the way that Charles would express those emotions, which meant deliberate eerie flatness, pain carefully walled up and hidden away from view.  
  
Erik opened his mouth again, and discovered that he had no words left to say.  
  
“Armando,” Alex started, abruptly, and Sean, of all people, stepped hard on his foot.  
  
“He’s all right,” Charles answered, voice too controlled. “I know I should’ve been his anchor…but at least he’s…I felt him. When I could still feel—he’s here. It’ll take him a while to work out solidity again, I suspect, if I can’t—well. If I can’t help.”  
  
No one said anything, for a moment.  
  
Charles looked over at Azazel and his silent companion, from the shelter of Erik’s arms. Started to speak; Erik, trying to explain, ended up interrupting him. Winced, though not visibly. Himself, trampling over Charles’s voice. The only one he had left, now.  
  
“I told them they could stay.” His own voice didn’t shake, as he looked at Charles. He wouldn’t let it.  
  
“Of course.” Charles held out a hand, white and bloodied but palm up and welcoming. “Of course. You’re entirely welcome here.”  
  
That welcome should’ve been echoed with, surrounded by, borne up on, a wave of telepathic certainty, lemon-yellow and sincere. It wasn’t.  
  
Azazel shifted weight, uncomfortable with this generosity, but said, “Thank you.”  
  
“Raven,” Charles inquired, “could you find them a room? You’d know better than I would what we’ve currently available.”  
  
Raven glanced at her brother, then at Azazel—who watched her calmly—then nodded, and took them away. Because Charles had asked. Was alive to ask.  
  
“You,” Hank demanded, “you _came back from the dead_. Infirmary. Now.”  
  
“I wasn’t dead,” Charles said, though his gaze went very far away at the words. “Others first, Hank. Angel, that wing, I’m so sorry—”  
  
“It’ll heal! I’m fine!”  
  
“ _Everyone_ in the infirmary!”  
  
They went. Hank looked mollified, for a scant few minutes, and then the concern took over.  
  
“Is he all right?” Erik knew he wasn’t. Everyone knew. No one wanted to say it.  
  
“He’s…” Hank stopped. Charles, lying on the bed, opened his eyes again—he’d closed them, drifting, while Hank rebandaged his arm-wound—and supplied, “I do appreciate your skill with a needle, Hank, thank you.”  
  
“Don’t thank me. Charles, you—you can’t—you aren’t hearing…anything at all?”  
  
“Nothing.” A headshake, brief but definitive. “There isn’t anything you can do. Not for this.”  
  
“Charles,” Erik said, still not trembling, though it was the calm of petrified forests, “what does that mean?”  
  
“I know my own mind.” Charles pushed himself up on one elbow; Erik slid an arm behind his back. “I always have; and I mean that quite literally, you understand. I know the way everything…fits together. Or used to. There’s…” A pause, the captain of the vessel having to explain that, no, the shipwreck was inevitable, the doom assured, sinking into frigid waters. Iceberg too large and deadly to avoid. Gaping holes in the sides.  
  
“…there’s nothing there,” Charles finished, finally. “Burned out, if you’d like the metaphor. Scorched earth. I only…I just see the charred space, left. I’m sorry.”  
  
There was an endless hush, after the words were finally spoken. The whole world felt muffled, even as it moved, turning solemnly on its axis.  
  
Over the next few hours, people spoke, and came and went; Hank eventually released Charles from the infirmary bed, after some extensive argument, and ordered him not to attempt anything more strenuous than reading in the library. Erik stayed by his side. Felt numb.  
  
Raven hugged her brother, not crying, but her eyes were red, when she came in to bring them tea. Herself, not a servant; she tried to coax a smile out of Charles, and it worked, but never for long.  
  
Sean came by the library, bringing a bowl. “I thought you might want company.”  
  
“That’s…a goldfish.” Erik had never seen the point of fish as pets, himself. Maybe it was a wolf-instinct. Fish were food, if they were anything.  
  
But Charles did smile, so this particular fish might be acceptable. “Thank you, Sean.”  
  
“His name’s Goldie,” Sean said helpfully. “He likes to be sung to.”  
  
“Er…yes, thank you.”  
  
“Right,” Sean said, a bit too quickly, “my shift, on watch,” and went out. Erik looked at Charles. Charles looked at Goldie.  
  
“He gave me his fish.”  
  
“He’s worried about you.”  
  
“That’s very sweet of him.”  
  
“Charles,” Erik said, and reached for him, needing to feel that solid weight in his arms again. “I’m worried about you.”  
  
“That’s very sweet of you, then.” But Charles did rest his head on Erik’s chest, so that counted as at least a partial triumph. “I’m sorry. I’m just not…nothing makes sense. It’s so quiet…but not quiet, at the same time. I can hear—memories.”  
  
“Memories?”  
  
That earned a headshake: something Charles couldn’t, or wouldn’t, speak of, yet. “Hank wasn’t entirely wrong. I wasn’t dead—it wasn’t me who died—but it was…I thought it’d be easier. I’ve felt death before. But this was…different.”  
  
“Did it—does it…” He couldn’t find the right word. Somewhere there was one, there must be: the word that would make it all all right and let them speak to each other again. Had to be.  
  
“…hurt?” Charles watched the goldfish turn circles, trapped in glass. “Like nothing I’ve ever felt. Yes.”  
  
And then, so swiftly that Erik couldn’t even reply, could only sit paralyzed while his heart shattered, “It’s all right, Erik. It isn’t your fault.”  
  
“It is.” Words he’d said on the sand, Charles unconscious in his arms, not hearing; he said them again now. “I was—you called me your Champion. And I killed him.” I killed you, he didn’t say. Neither of them said it.  
  
The words rang in the hush, anyway.  
  
“It really is all right,” Charles said, and closed his eyes. “I knew you would.”  
  
The goldfish swam in a leisurely spiral, uncaring.  
  
Erik tried everything he could think of, in the wake of that sentence, over the following days, to atone.  
  
In wolf-shape, he went hunting, brought back delicacies, wild boar and truffles and golden honeycomb and ripe plums. He dove into the lake, where Charles’d once surfaced rambling about the adaptations of aquatic fauna, and brought up rocks, and plants, and a wriggling little silvery fish that raced around the bowl Hank found for it in untiring loops. It made friends with Sean’s goldfish, eventually.  
  
He brought home watercress, and algae, and pond-weed. Curious stones and quick little tadpoles to study and sketch and release.  
  
He offered chess-matches, at night, before the fire; in the mornings, under the pattering beats of the rain.  
  
Charles always thanked him, and smiled, and even made an effort, appreciating it all. But the sketches and stones gathered dust, after a while, or disappeared into Hank’s greedy hands. And chess games were more often than not dismissed with a heartbreakingly wistful, “I’d not stay awake long enough, I think…”  
  
Charles wasn’t eating. Erik, new bruises like footprints on the surface of his heart, told himself that it was only shock, that it’d only been one day, two days, three days, that surely Charles would want food again…  
  
He tried hand-feeding his mate, his lover, his Charles, in bed. Charles nibbled bites of honeycomb and chocolate from his fingers, and fell asleep, lips sticky, after only a few moments.  
  
It didn’t occur to him, at first, that Charles was deliberately starving himself. He’d thought those blue eyes just weren’t hungry, mentally if not physically. And then he watched as dishes came up from the kitchen and lay untouched, while Charles’s stomach, under Erik’s ear as he lay in bed trailing kisses over pale hips and thighs, made a complaining noise.  
  
He sat up. “Charles—”  
  
Charles looked away.  
  
“Aren’t you hungry? I know you’re hungry.”  
  
“I’m—”  
  
“They made those meat pies you like. Wild grouse. Sage and blackberries.” The kitchens had been loyally outdoing themselves, the past few days. Charles had been sending the offerings down to the village, rather than sending them back. No hurt feelings below-stairs. “I can feed you. Please.”  
  
“Erik—”  
  
“ _Please_.”  
  
“I can’t.” Charles sat up, hugging the blanket to his chest. “I shouldn’t—I feel—”  
  
“We’ll fix this,” Erik said. “We will, we can—there must be something. Someone who—Emma Frost, Charles, she’s gifted, like you—”  
  
“Like I was,” Charles said.  
  
“You gave her a home,” Erik said, not touching that subject, not knowing how to begin to touch that subject. “She’ll try. For you.” He’d make her try.  
  
Charles sighed, and slid back down into the bed. “You think it’ll help…”  
  
“I think we should explore every possibility. And I think you should eat a blackberry. At least five blackberries.”  
  
Charles sighed again.  
  
“I promised,” Erik told him, “to guard you against harm.”  
  
“My Champion.” One hand snuck out from under the blanket. Found the closest bit of Erik, which happened to be a knee. Settled there. “You never do give up, do you?”  
  
“Never.” He did get up, though, and brought over the tray. “I meant it about feeding you. I’ll sit on you if I have to.”  
  
“Oh, that’s not your most effective threat ever; sounds like fun…”  
  
But Charles sat up, and Charles ate the first blackberry, and a few bites of the pie. Erik finished it off once he seemed to be done—he’d not realized how hungry he was, himself—and said, “I’ll be there with you, when we meet with her, tomorrow,” and curled his body around that smaller shape and radiated warmth through the night.  
  
Emma Frost looked at them, in the morning—Erik’d insisted on doing it first thing; Charles had the most energy before all the demands of the day—and said, “I know why you’ve come.”  
  
Her rooms were still technically her prison-space, but Charles had ordered the guard relaxed. She didn’t seem especially inclined to leave.  
  
“I heard…” She flicked a glance at Erik. Back to Charles. “I am sorry.” And her voice was the voice of another telepath, comprehending the magnitude of the loss in a way no one else, not even Erik, ever would.  
  
He could be angry, or jealous. Instead he simply hoped that there was something she could do.  
  
Charles, folded up in Tony Stark’s metal-lined blanket—with which, if necessary, Erik could pull him out of harm’s way, or so he told himself—tucked his feet up in the chair, and looked at her, straightforwardly. “I know.” And that was honest, too.  
  
“I can…at least seek out the extent of the damage. If you would—if you’d permit me to try.” One more glance at Erik: if you’d allow me to.  
  
Erik shifted his weight, ready to pounce.  
  
“It won’t help,” Charles said. “Though I do trust you, and so does Erik.”  
  
“Be quiet,” Erik said. “Please.”  
  
She looked at those weary blue eyes for a second, intently. Then back at Erik. “He doesn’t want me to try.”  
  
“Charles,” Erik said again, and then put a hand on his shoulder, used his ability, worried at the blanket until Charles turned toward him. And then stopped, horrified. Using abilities. No.  
  
“It’s all right.” Charles touched the blanket, with one thin hand. And a smile played, briefly, around that mouth. “It’s…comfortable. You being yourself.”  
  
Erik stood beside him, hand remaining in place, touching him through layers of fabric and fear. Charles couldn’t mean that, surely. Couldn’t be pleased at the reminder.  
  
He’d’ve known, once, what emotions were present behind that gaze. Would have felt them, as bright and vivid and clear as his own, even more unrestrained because Charles, when in love, loved so freely, and gave over all of himself to be held.  
  
Charles looked at him a few seconds longer, and then said quietly, “Lady Frost, if you would?”  
  
The room went motionless, with the sea-change of it.  
  
Less finesse, Erik thought, observing, than Charles’s subtlety. But raw power, yes. He could feel the short hairs at the nape of his neck wanting to bristle.  
  
Both figures were immobile. Falling snowflakes, arrested mid-tumble. He couldn’t tell if anything had happened. But time ticked by, monotonous and regular and unperturbed.  
  
Emma Frost gasped, suddenly, and shook her head, a swimmer near drowning but finding the surface at last. Erik heard her breathe, and snapped his gaze back to Charles, who was opening his eyes more gradually, face drawn but composed.  
  
“Are you—”  
  
“I’m—as fine as I was.” He did hold out one hand, though; Erik took it, and felt the slight pressure as those fingers closed around his. “Lady Frost…thank you for the effort.”  
  
Her diamond calm was back in place, now; but it shivered a little at that. “I…wish I could have helped you, Charles.”  
  
“I know,” Charles said, and there was just a flash of that old humor, wry and teasing, under the surface, “but I’ll ask you for your answer regardless, now,” and Erik demanded, “What answer?” and Emma Frost looked honestly startled. “You would still—want me to stay?”  
  
“If you would like to stay. The choice is yours.” Another smile, this one full of indecipherable emotion, layers of complicated compassion and irony. “We could use a powerful mind. To assist in the castle’s shielding and defenses.”  
  
Her eyebrows said _you’d trust me with that?_ but she shook her head, incredulous agreement, and answered, “Yes,” aloud. And Charles nodded.  
  
“Good, then. You can…you could see the shields I used to build. The infrastructure, in my head. Can you…”  
  
“Copy them? Certainly. I may also make some changes. That lack of offensive capability…”  
  
She paused; Erik, who might’ve agreed, glared. He could see Charles’s face.  
  
But Charles only said, “I had the little watchdog-guard set up, I know you saw that in there, my alert system…if you think he needs fangs, I won’t argue. Not much more than that, however. Please.”  
  
Emma Frost inclined her head, looking at Charles with an odd mingling of pity and respect; and Charles actually stood up before Erik could grab his arm, and nodded back, and left.  
  
Out in the corridor, in the comforting shadowy stone maze of the keep, Charles shut his eyes, and slumped against the wall, too unexpectedly for Erik to catch him or try to help or intervene. He did stay upright, with the anxious assistance of said wall; but it seemed to be an effort.  
  
“ _Charles_ ,” Erik said, frantic, and flung arms around him. “Charles, please—”  
  
“I’m all right,” Charles whispered, “only tired, I’m only—”  
  
“Upstairs. Now.”  
  
He scooped blue eyes and weary hair and pale skin into his hold, when Charles stumbled, trying to take a step. Erik’s heart tripped over itself, too, cracking.  
  
His fault. Maybe not the original hurt—they both knew that assassination attempt’d been meant for Charles regardless—but pushing him into the confrontation, bringing him to Shaw’s cove, not keeping him safe and protected and treasured forever.  
  
Asking him to meet with Emma Frost now.  
  
He _had_ thought it might help. He couldn’t regret trying. But he could regret the pain in sea-spray eyes, the knowledge of what they’d lost and had to request from another person. The way that Charles was so quiet, now, worn down by loss, by Frost’s excavations inside his head, at Erik’s request.  
  
Charles had said yes. And then had offered her a place, a function, a home.  
  
The candles in the candelabrum they were currently passing had gone out. Erik bit his lip—Charles’s eyes were closed—and tasted the sting of iron, rising to the surface, and climbed more stairs, with ferocity. Not an omen. He wouldn’t let it be.  
  
There was a fire roaring away with all its might in the cozy tower bedroom. There always was, these days. It stayed lit and burning longer, he sometimes thought, than rational heat exchange ought to allow; but of course it did. For Charles.  
  
He tucked Charles into the chair by the heat. The flames waved at them encouragingly. Erik hated them briefly for that.  
  
One corner of that enticing mouth quirked upwards; ruefulness, perhaps, or resignation, or gallows-humor. He couldn’t tell. Couldn’t ask. “Chairs…”  
  
“Do you—did you not want this one?” It was a large fluffy cushiony chair; but if there was something uncomfortable about it, he’d dismantle it with his own hands on the spot. “Would you rather—”  
  
“No, it’s fine, I’m just…” Charles sighed. “There’s not room for both of us. And you…we used to play chess on that rug. I liked lying on that rug, with you. Feeling you next to me…”  
  
He’d been holding Charles near-continuously at night, during the day, at any given opportunity. But holding him gingerly, too. One wrong move, one unconsidered touch…  
  
He’d nearly lost all those touches, all that future holding, once already. He wasn’t sure even now that he hadn’t.  
  
And thinking those words, shaping the possibility for the first time, left him speechless with fear.  
  
And of course Charles, given that silence, looked away. Said, to the fire, “I’m sorry. I know you were trying to help, with Lady Frost. I wish it had worked, Erik, truly I do. I’m sorry.”  
  
The flames snapped, sparking, forlorn.  
  
Erik knelt down, at his side. Looked up, attempting to find some opening in the depths of those barred-shut blue eyes. Thought, I am so sorry, Charles, I love you, forgive me.  
  
He knew Charles wouldn’t hear him.  
  
He put one hand on Charles’s knee. Thought about all the times it’d been a paw; thought about the way those extraordinary eyes’d seen him from the beginning, as a person, regardless of the imprisoning wolf’s-body.  
  
Charles had given him back the freedom of choice, of movement between those shapes. Even before that, had given him a refuge, determined, fearless, compassionate, kind.  
  
“You don’t have to stay,” Charles said, not taking his hand. “You can—you can do anything, now, Erik. Anything you’ve ever wanted.”  
  
For a second he couldn’t talk. The words bit into his skin, his heart, like broken glass, leaving ugly scratches behind, blood welling up after the fact. “You—you want me to—to go—”  
  
Of course. Charles had seen him, there, on that beach. Had seen all of his darkness, that part of his thoughts that’d been tempted, that’d heard sense in Shaw’s words; had seen Erik rip a man’s flesh apart with bare teeth and deliberate intent to cause pain. Of course Charles wouldn’t want him now.  
  
“I don’t mean—”  
  
“I can. I can go. If you—if you’re asking—” He stood up, though it was less of a movement and more of a wounded lurch. “I’ll leave you alone, I—” His voice cracked. So human. And he couldn’t tell whether the shock in those eyes was for his reaction to the words, or his acceptance of them.  
  
Not without that mind brushing his, soft and solid and sweet as wool sweaters and hot tea. And he was responsible for that light going out, too.  
  
“No,” Charles said, sounding frustrated, angry, desperate. “Erik, no, I never said—”  
  
“You’re right.” He took a step toward the door of their rooms. _Charles’s_ rooms. Put a hand out, reaching blindly for the doorknob.  
  
And then spun back around. Threw himself across the room, onto the floor, back on his knees at Charles’s feet, and it was hopelessly melodramatic, overdone and straight out of bad festival pageants, but he _was_ hopeless, and he was afraid his legs wouldn’t let him get up if he tried to stand.  
  
“Erik—”  
  
“I can’t. I can’t, Charles, I _cannot_ just leave you here, I’ll leave you alone if you want that but I have to know you’re all right, I have to know you’re—you don’t have to want me, you don’t have to love me, but I love you, I don’t know how to not love you, you smiled at me that day when we met, in the forest, and you made me fall in love with you and I can’t leave you, don’t ask me for that. Anything else. But not that. Please.”  
  
“But,” Charles said, and those were tears, glittering all at once in the blue oceans, falling like rain over mourning seas. “Erik, you—”  
  
“Please,” Erik said, again, and then got up because he had to and put both hands on Charles’s cheeks, stroking away the tears as they spilled, feeling the hot wet salt of them on his skin. Who else would do this, if he was gone? Who else would Charles ever trust this much, allow this close?  
  
He rubbed his thumb gently over the thin skin below long eyelashes, collecting droplets, and felt his heart contract, a strange futile ache.  
  
Charles turned his head. Kissed Erik’s right hand, very lightly, an openmouthed breath of air against the base of his thumb. Erik’s heart performed another odd acrobatic jump, inside its cage of bone.  
  
“I love you,” Charles whispered. “I thought—I can’t feel you, I don’t know what you want, not now—”  
  
“I want you.” He wanted to kiss those lips in return. Wasn’t sure he’d be allowed. “No matter what.”  
  
“I’m not…” The blue eyes drifted down, gazing away. “That day, you said…in the forest, when we first met…when I fell off my horse and you growled at me…you fell in love with me then?”  
  
“I did.” Greatly daring, he reached for the closest hand. Held it in his, and set his other hand on top when Charles didn’t pull away. “I didn’t know it then.” Truth; Charles deserved that. “But I did. And I do love you. I always will.”  
  
Charles swallowed, painfully; took a breath, let it out, met his eyes. “Could you—can you carry me to bed? Please?”  
  
“Of course—!”  
  
He set Charles down as tenderly as he could, amid all the pillows. Tried not to jostle the bandaged arm; tried not to cause any more hurt. He moved to pull the blankets up, and Charles put out a hand, and caught his arm.  
  
“What—too warm? Sorry—”  
  
“No. I’m…a little cold, in fact. But I don’t want the blankets.”  
  
“Then—”  
  
“I want you.” Charles gazed up at him. “If you want—if you’ll stay. And hold me.”  
  
“Charles,” Erik said, and then, at the answering nod, slid onto the mattress beside him. Held out an arm, despite internal voices shouting loudly about the dangers of his own touch and potential harm. Charles was cold.  
  
Charles wriggled closer and put his head on Erik’s chest and let Erik’s arms close around him and draped one arm over Erik’s waist, in reply.  
  
The fire crackled, to itself. Peaceful.  
  
“I thought,” Charles breathed, into his shirt, “that you would—I know you loved me. Then. When I was—when I could kiss you with a thought and give you tropical flowers in our dreams and walk across a room without needing assistance and make love to you in this bed all night. Even when I lost—some of that, the physical—it didn’t matter, because I could be strong, with you. I know you love what we—what you are, what you can do, what I could do. Strength. And power. And now that’s gone.”  
  
Unspoken, but Erik didn’t need telepathy, this time, to hear it: and what good am I now, to you?  
  
“I thought I was going to die,” Charles told the night, and Erik’s shoulder. “And I was…I’d come to terms with that. Would’ve been in a good cause. I was prepared. And then I didn’t. Not then.”  
  
“…not then.”  
  
A quiet breath. “You love me.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You…want me. To stay.”  
  
 _“Yes!”_  
  
“Even like this…”  
  
“Charles,” Erik said, utterly terrified, remembering another conversation, a question across a chessboard, a confession: _do you believe it’s a mortal sin, to take one’s own life?_ … _.I won’t say I never thought about it_ …  
  
“Charles, no. I—you—I am not good at this. I don’t know what to say. I love you. Just now, I—I carried you to bed because I wanted to, because you asked, because you are the strongest person I’ve ever known.” This prompted a small disbelieving sound; Erik shook him, but gently, and rolled them over until he ended up on top. He took most of his own weight, holding himself up on elbows; but he knew Charles liked that feeling, Erik’s body atop his, covering him, protective and possessive.  
  
And they could still have that. He had to let Charles know. To see, and feel, what they could still be together.  
  
He kissed those mobile lips, as they parted for what might’ve been either dismissal or acceptance. Found the sweetness of black tea and honey meeting his tongue.  
  
Charles shut his eyes, but walked his hands along Erik’s back, tentative and exploring.  
  
Erik kissed him again, mouth caressing the line of his throat, the firework freckles that led him on in celebration. Nuzzled under the open collar of that fine linen shirt, finding the scent of him, the taste.  
  
Charles laughed, once, small and shy and startled, and let Erik strip him, stitch by stitch, clothing drifting butterfly-like to the floor. Let Erik adore every inch, hands and fingertips and tongue and skin meeting skin, trying to demonstrate in every possible manner how wondrous he thought Charles was, how inspiring, how worshipped, how beloved.  
  
They made love slowly, but devotedly, Erik whispering words of praise and love, endearments falling out of his lips and brushing over Charles’s skin, filthy and tender. Charles wrapped a leg around his waist, blue eyes shining up at him, and Erik closed his hand around both their shafts and stroked, bringing them deliciously close, hard and hot and together.  
  
It was strange, not feeling Charles in his head, not feeling all that pleasure reflected and amplified and redoubled almost beyond bearing in brilliant. Strange; but not wrong. Not bad. Different. They learned each other anew.  
  
Charles gasped out loud when the peak hit, body shuddering and eyes huge and hands tightening on Erik’s shoulders, holding on, holding him; and Erik felt the searing pulses of that climax spill over his hand and himself and then he followed, with a groan, taking Charles’s mouth in one final bruising kiss.  
  
Charles clung to him, shivering, after. Erik found water and a cloth and cleaned them both of stickiness, and Charles reached for him, and they slid back into bed, and the end of the afternoon stretched out like a dream, sweet and indistinct, time blurring around the edges while they held each other.  
  
He talked Charles into eating a few slices of venison, for supper. And rubbed his stomach, gentle circles, afterwards, while blue eyes dozed.  
  
In the depths of the night, later, Charles woke sobbing. Erik, shocked into instant wakefulness, flung arms around him. “Charles—love—are you—what did I—”  
  
“…not you.” Charles blinked; tears slid like broken crystal over his freckles. Over a healing scratch on one cheekbone, which Erik’d not noticed at the time, back on the sand. One tear got tangled in the thin dark red line, and ran along it. “I’m—sorry, I…”  
  
“I’m here. I’m here, and—” He stopped. What could he say? It will be all right? How could he promise that?  
  
He said, “I love you, Charles.”  
  
“I know…” Another blink. The stars glittered beyond the window like avaricious pinprick fangs. “I can’t…you don’t want to know, I can’t tell you this…”  
  
Erik swallowed hard while the shards of his heart tried to push their way up his throat, and promised, “You can.”  
  
“I…don’t know.”  
  
“Anything.” He stroked a hand over Charles’s back, over old scars and beloved skin. “Anything at all.”  
  
“The nightmares…” Charles tipped his head up. Met Erik’s eyes; flinched and glanced away, but returned, and Erik kissed his nose gently, for the courage. Charles sighed. “It isn’t…they’re not my nightmares. They…I’m seeing…everything Lord Shaw did. Everything he remembered. Do you…understand? What that means?”  
  
Erik couldn’t breathe, at that. His own memories swam up, dizzy with pain and tortured days and nights, burning red and black with hate…  
  
Charles was feeling all of that. And more: every person Shaw’d ever twisted and tormented.  
  
In his horrified silence, Charles’d looked away again, but kept talking. “What that means...they’re his memories, Erik. I’m seeing it all…the way he saw it. What he saw, how he felt, when he looked at you. All of you. The world. I’m…him.”  
  
“No!” Instinctive. Shocked. Terrified. “No, no, you are not, Charles, please—” He put his hand on the closest cheek, cupping that face in his fingers. Drying tears left salt on his skin; long eyelashes feathered along his hand, when Charles blinked. “You’re not him. You—you’re my king. You are Charles. You—you’re my—I love you, Charles.” Repetition, saying that name over and over. Maybe it could sink in.  
  
“I feel like him,” Charles whispered. “All of it…”  
  
“You’re _not_ him.” Desperate, he kissed those tear-flavored lips again, fierce and hard and loyal. Hoped it’d be fierce and hard and loyal enough. And felt the shiver, along his spine: Charles, even Charles, had been marred by this darkness. Erik’s past. Erik’s enemy.  
  
“It’s not your fault.” The words were shaky but certain; and Erik froze, lips parted, their breath mingling.  
  
Charles even smiled, a little, though it was pained. Fractional; fractured. “No, I’m not…I can see it on your face. And I…know you. It’s not your fault, Erik; I chose to do what I did. You never asked that of me. I never gave you the chance to.”  
  
“I’d’ve said no.” He hoped so. He wanted to believe so.  
  
The man he was now, the man looking into those blue eyes and seeing lifeless tides, would say no. Not worth this. No vengeance was.  
  
“We needed to stop him. We agreed.”  
  
Steadier, now, as if justifying the wound aloud made it easier to bear. Comfort in lecturing, Erik thought, always, his Charles; and then wanted to howl his grief and rage to the night.  
  
Out loud, he concurred, “Yes,” and took those chilled-pale hands in his. “You…you were…wrong, you know. Doing that.”  
  
 _“What?”_  
  
Completely indignant, that; Erik’s tears threatened, overwhelmed, to spill into laughter, at the success. “You did _not_ ask. What I’d’ve wanted. Whether I thought Shaw’s death was worth losing you.”  
  
“I…”  
  
“Arrogant of you,” Erik told him, and kissed the back of his hand, “but then you are my king, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised…” And Charles stared at him, too astounded to recall the drying trails of tears on those cheeks.  
  
“You—you—Erik—”  
  
“My king, and I’m your Champion.” He squeezed the hands, in his. “Better?”  
  
Charles blinked, and, after a second, said, “…possibly? Erik?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Thank you. Honestly wrong, though, about that? I didn’t mean it…that way.”  
  
“I know you didn’t.” He dared to ease one arm around those shoulders, this time. Charles accepted the embrace, and put his head on Erik’s shoulder. “I would have asked you not to.” And that was true. He knew it was, as he said the words. “But you’d’ve argued with me. And done it regardless.”  
  
A smile, less broken this time. “Likely. Erik, I…I love you. You know I love you. Your…mate. You said.”  
  
“I did. And you said yes.” He leaned his head against that improbable tumble of dark hair. “Werewolves mate for life, you know.” He’d no idea whether or not that was true; his parents had never manifested, and the closest they’d got to tradition had been telling him stories about crazed great-grandfather David, who’d run around howling at the moon even in human form.  
  
“For life,” Charles said, and smiled again, dandelion-bitter, spindrift on the wind. “Would you like to properly marry me, then?”  
  
“I—you’re asking—yes, of course yes, but you—can we?” As a king and a Champion. A king and a werewolf. A man and another man who could never have heirs to the throne.  
  
And still the idea felt like tiny sparkling bits of joy, scampering through all his veins.  
  
Charles blinked. “I wasn’t—I didn’t think you’d agree—I meant that to be more of a—this is too _hard_ , without hearing you—”  
  
“I know how you meant it.” The fire sighed, across the room. “But I meant it as well. You can hear that much.” Please, he thought. Please hear that much.  
  
“Yes—you’d say yes, and god, I want you to—but, Erik, I’m not—”  
  
“You’re not what?”  
  
“I don’t know how long I can do this,” Charles whispered, very low. A confession. The stars, beyond the window, burned like ice.  
  
Erik shut his eyes, opened them, tightened his arms around those shoulders. No words, and too many words: you’ll be all right, you can do this, you can do anything, you’re beautiful no matter what.  
  
None of those words would keep Charles here. Would keep him away from that creeping insidious despair, and alongside that, the equally real physical symptoms: the nightmares, the exhaustion, the pain, the amputation of a vital sense, cut off and cauterized and dead.  
  
Charles _had_ been dead. That alone would kill anyone.  
  
“I’m still saying yes,” he said.  
  
And Charles breathed in, almost a sob, and sat up and flung both arms around him, and Erik held him, and Charles said “yes?” and Erik said “Yes, Charles, always yes,” and the starlight, falling in through the thick clear glass, shivered from ice-silver to white-gold, bright as wedding-rings.  
  
The world didn’t get better—how could it?—all at once, then. But a little, perhaps. A lightening in the air, a thunderstorm dwindling to mist.  
  
A future. They had it. They still had it.  
  
He couldn’t ask Charles for promises about forever, not when every day was an unimaginable victory. But he could smile, and let Charles see the smile, at each bite of toast, each sip of tea, each move on a chessboard: the pieces of life, of their life. Vital signs.

The entire castle lit up at the news of the proposal, as hard as the old stone walls struggled to keep the excitement muted for Charles’s sake. But there’d not been a royal wedding in decades, and the people loved their king. Even the entirely human village butcher, dropping off his weekly delivery of meat, threw in extra tender cuts without charge. The resident lacemaker, who had just a touch of gift that encouraged her silkworms to spin, sent up a billowing celebratory canopy, gauzy and drifting lighter than air.  
  
Lord Stark sent a shield. It was painted magenta. Charles stared quizzically at it for a while, and then handed it to Erik, who nearly dropped it, because he’d never felt a metal like this before, because he could read the words Stark’d had etched under the decorations: _you’d damn well better keep him safe, Champion, or I’ll have to come down there._  
  
He told Charles, once he’d stopped being offended; Charles laughed. “Tony’s a friend. You’d like him, I think.”  
  
“I would _not_ ,” Erik said, horrified, though in actual fact he suspected that he might. Certainly he couldn’t blame Stark for caring about Charles’s welfare.  
  
He began, cautiously, going for runs. The wolf needed to, likely always would, especially while the castle hummed with wedding-talk. And it was an unspoken understanding between them: Charles would be fine, was fine, without Erik at his side every single minute of every day.  
  
He wanted to be, for all those minutes, but it was good for them. Charles’s eyes were a little brighter, interested and self-sufficient, when he returned; Erik could feel the wind in his fur and bare his teeth at the cold. It _was_ good. For both of them.  
  
He nevertheless might’ve smiled at Hank the first time, with all his teeth and a pointed, “Take care of him,” but Charles didn’t need to know that. Certainly didn’t need to know about Hank’s gulp and nod.  
  
That afternoon, he’d scented the bread while out in wolf-form, returning to the castle; had pictured Charles tasting it, all fresh-baked and steaming invitingly, hot and dripping with butter. Those dark blue eyes would smile, he’d thought, and had run into the kitchens, after a quick detour to become human and find clothes. No rush, anyway; he’d left Charles looking up a fern-specimen in a book, and likely to be there for hours.  
  
The cooks waved at him—they had the bread on a metal platter, how kind—and inquired hastily whether he and Charles might prefer sugared violets or rose petals on a wedding-cake, “while we’ve got you here, dear.” Erik panicked in the face of this domestic inquisition, spluttered, “can you make them into swords?” and then thought, _roses_ , and backtracked, said, “um…he likes roses. White ones. I think,” and fled.  
  
To the library.  
  
Where there was a distinct absence of Charles.  
  
He froze in the doorway, and only his reflexes saved the platter from hitting the floor.  
  
Charles was gone. Charles was—  
  
Hank came sprinting up, out of breath, face flushed. “Sorry, sorry—I had to—in the lab, with the—”  
  
 _“Where’s Charles!”_  
  
A cough, a glare; Erik moved the hand off Hank’s throat, reluctantly. “He’s fine.” A throat-rub, with annoyed scowl. “He said he wanted some space. Which I can understand; you’re kind of intense, you know. Not that I don’t sympathize—” He held up both hands at Erik’s expression, placating. “He went down to the lake. I was supposed to tell you to meet him there. He’s not trying to get away from _you_.”  
  
Too far. The lake was too far, Charles couldn’t walk that far, couldn’t call for help if—  
  
He shoved Hank to one side, spun on his heel, and raced out of the room. As an afterthought, took the bread along with him, twisting the platter into a frantic liquid bundle: food, sustenance, energy. Charles might need it.  
  
And then he ran.  
  
Outside, the surface of the lake was as slate-grey as the sky. And the well-worn path met his feet with urgency, compelling him on.  
  
Charles was perched on the second-largest of the rocks, also grey and tranquil, and was evidently uninjured by the exertion. He had Stark’s hideous red-and-gilt blanket around his shoulders, and his hair was being ruffled by the teasing fingers of the breeze, and he was wearing one of his oldest and plainest and warmest shirts, and he looked every inch a king.  
  
Behind him, the castle hulked placidly. Overhead, the clouds shifted.  
  
Erik skidded to a stop in the dirt, panting, and said, helplessly, “Charles…”  
  
“Erik!” Those eyes brightened up, sunbeams through the mist; Charles held out both hands, beckoning him over. “I was thinking, for the wedding…you do like being out of doors. And I like it here.”  
  
“It might rain.” Wedding? He watched the eyes. The blue gave nothing away, none of those thoughts beneath the surface. But ideas about the wedding meant ideas about their future, about a life together, about more than one day at a time. Didn’t they?  
  
A smile; Charles tapped a foot idly against his rock. Erik winced. “Pessimist. Anyway if it does rain I’ve got you to keep me warm. Come here.”  
  
He sat down on the cool rough stone. Folded arms around too-thin shoulders. The blanket, metal-lined, hummed at him. “I’ll always keep you warm. You know that.”  
  
“I know.” Charles watched the water, small scurrying ripples blown by the breeze. “It’s probably a bit cold to go swimming, isn’t it?”  
  
“Right now? Yes.”  
  
“Possibly later, then. When it’s warm. Swimming…that’s decent exercise, correct? For…rebuilding strength?”  
  
“Charles—”  
  
“You gave that back to me,” Charles said, leaning more weight against him. “That day…when we all came down here…”  
  
“You gave that to yourself,” Erik told him, softly.  
  
“Wouldn’t’ve done it, without you.” With a nudge of his shoulder into Erik’s side, affectionate. “I just…wanted you to know that. How much I love you.”  
  
“You,” Erik said, after a moment, through the chatter of the breeze picking up, “you did walk down here by yourself…”  
  
“I did. I wasn’t certain I could, but I thought…I ought to try. What _is_ that, by the way?” This last directed at Erik’s metal-knotted bread-bundle, dripping butter through thin hasty cracks.  
  
“I…brought you food?”  
  
“So you did.” Charles picked out a hunk of bread-and-butter, heedless of the mess. Took a bite; licked his fingers, absently. Erik, watching the slide of golden butter, the sweep of pink tongue, tried not to whimper. “Thank you.”  
  
“Do you…want help walking back? Or…”  
  
“Maybe.” Another bite; another unconscious sinful temptation. Erik couldn’t look away. “Not just yet, though. I like it here. With you. And the bread. Thank the bakers for me?”  
  
“You can do it when we get back. They’d love to see you.” The wind purred, around their rock-oasis.  
  
“Hmm…I probably should, yes. It’s been a while since I’ve stopped by to see them, and Martha’s daughter’s likely had her baby, and that’s her first grandchild…But you’re saying you, not we; did they ask you about cake flavors again?”  
  
“Flowers, this time.” He held Charles a bit more closely. Secure. Tried to fight back the absurd upswell of joy, dancing in his chest. There was no good reason for it, none at all, nothing had changed, Charles hadn’t said—  
  
“I hope you told them roses,” Charles said, looking up at him with eyes like the richest deepest widest blue sky before sunrise, and fed him a piece of bread.  
  
The next morning, they’d been comfortably ensconced around the breakfast table for some time when the knock came. Everyone looked at each other; Charles, who’d never stood on ceremony, would’ve opened the doors himself, but Sean was already on his feet. The guardsmen’d been taking turns at that, quietly.  
  
Charles smiled, just a little. Didn’t say anything, but ate another forkful of eggs. Most of the table stared at his nearly-empty plate.  
  
It hadn’t been _that_ full to begin with. But it’d been more than two bites of toast and a sip of tea. So much more.  
  
When he sighed, and set down the fork, Erik reached over, under the table, and put a hand on his knee.  
  
Charles smiled again, as if at some small private joke, and put his hand on top of Erik’s, and picked up his oversized mug of tea with the other hand, and Erik watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed.  
  
Sean came running back in, excited, worried, catching his breath. “Ambassadors—well, sort of—from England, from—everywhere, I think—they want to talk to you, Charles, they’re very insistent—”  
  
“Ambassadors.”  
  
“Well…” Sean shuffled his feet. “Not exactly…they’ve got swords. Big ones.”  
  
“Ah.” Charles regarded him over the tea. “They want me, then? Took them long enough, really. I’m hardly a threat these days.”  
  
“You—”  
  
“That’s not me reading your mind, Sean, only your expression. Are they hoping I’ll come quietly, to avert a war?”  
  
“Um,” Sean said, miserably.  
  
“I believe I’ll go and meet with them. After I finish this. It’s quite good.”  
  
“You can’t—” Alex. Breaking his self-imposed silence. “You _can’t_ , Charles—don’t—you can’t give up—”  
  
“He’s not,” Erik said, and Charles smiled at him for that, sunbeams through rain. Then turned the smile on Alex, less intimate but equally kind. “Erik’s right, Alex. I’m not. I am still your king, correct?”  
  
“I could make them leave,” Emma Frost offered, unexpectedly. She’d been rather quiet, observing. “I could do so from here.”  
  
“Thank you, but no.” Charles finished off the last sip, and got to his feet—Erik’s hand hovering at his elbow, but not holding on, just yet—and cast a smile around the table, and walked slowly out, Erik at his side.  
  
The ambassadors were hostile. Had obviously been warned about telepaths and gifted freaks and the power that’d stopped a madman on a beach. They were here to examine the threat and decide on appropriate action.  
  
Charles charmed them all. Erik watched, in awe.  
  
They went on a castle tour. Up along the ramparts, where Erik restrained an impulse to clutch at thin shoulders lest the wind blow Charles over the side; down to the bake-ovens after all, where Charles promptly offered congratulations on the grandbaby and a dowry that’d set the child up for life. The ambassadors looked bemused. Erik smiled.  
  
Halfway through the tour, standing out on the grassy field in the middle of the keep, the wind whipping all that hair into his face, Charles smiled too, sunnily. Accepted another cup of tea, when Raven descended upon them with it; offered to share, and then, calmly, observed how very loyal and dedicated his family was, and his guardsmen, and indeed all the land.  
  
Erik hid his grin. Charles did know how to do threatening; he used it like a blade concealed in cotton wool, sliding out when needed, and vanishing otherwise behind the fluff of tea and generosity.  
  
He held out a hand, and Charles, without looking, took it.  
  
The ambassadors, with their swords, left, wearing expressions that suggested they weren’t entirely sure what’d just happened. Charles sent little packages of tea and cookies with them down to the ships. The wind chuckled to itself, racing around the sails.  
  
Charles, thin and pale and windblown and beautiful, squeezed Erik’s hand, and said, “Chess match? To celebrate?”  
  
Erik dreamed, that night, of tropical flowers, and hibiscus bushes, strange and exotic blooms filling the air with sweetness; of the taste of salt-spray, and an ocean bluer than anything in reality, nearly as blue as a certain pair of eyes.  
  
He walked along the beach very precisely, while the pale golden sand rippled through his bare toes. He didn’t look right or left; he had, once, and wouldn’t again. One glimpse was enough, of that place where the gold was slowly turning cold and iron-red.  
  
Charles was sitting on a rock, out to sea, arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees. Erik considered this for a moment, then plunged into the waves and swam out to him, long steady strokes. The water was silky, and temperate, against his skin.  
  
“You found me,” Charles said, as Erik pulled himself out of the sea and up onto the rock. “You’re in my dream.”  
  
“…yes?” I’ll always find you, he meant.  
  
And Charles laughed. Behind them, the sun danced in its place, beguilingly merry too. _Thank you._  
  
 _You—you can—_  
  
 _I don’t know._ Charles lay down on the sun-warmed rock; Erik sat down beside him, dripping seawater. “Don’t worry about that,” Charles observed, closing his eyes. “It’s sweet water.”  
  
An experimental lip-lick confirmed that this was, in fact, the case. “You…imagine oceans of sugared water? In your dreams?” _Is this…all right?_  
  
 _I can hear you, if that’s what you mean. In here_. “It’s an old dream. Or most of it is. But I do rather like the idea…salt into sweetness. Come here.”  
  
Erik stretched out beside him—and they were both naked; had they been naked before?—and held out an arm; Charles wriggled over and settled into it. _I love you_.  
  
“And I love you.” _Is this…a good sign?_  
  
 _I still don’t know. I’m afraid to think so._ “But it might be,” Charles said, aloud, and tucked his face into Erik’s neck, breathing sugar over his skin. “It might be.”  
  
They lay there together, while the sun danced a few more times in the sky. The crash of each wave, bursting steadily over their rock, left wild flavors behind: pineapple, banana, orange, more exotic fruits that he couldn’t identify. One wave tasted like tea; another, briefly, like tears, and Charles’s eyelashes felt wet against his face.  
  
Erik put the other arm around him, too, and held him more tightly, one leg draping itself over those shorter sturdier easily exhausted limbs for good measure. Charles made a small sound, and the next crash left the impression of rose petals, candied and shining with edible gold, rare and astonishing creations.  
  
Waking, he caught dark blue eyes with his own; saw the rueful headshake, the frayed and weary smile, and heard the silence of the ghosts in their empty connection. Charles sat up and yawned; Erik, heart quivering in his throat, tasted exotic fruit again, lingering on his mouth.  
  
Charles, absentmindedly, licked his lips.  
  
Erik took a deep breath, and said, “Charles,” and then, “guava? Or mango?”  
  
Charles said, “Mango, I think,” and then stopped, wide-eyed.  
  
“I love you,” Erik said, and Charles flung himself across the bed and into Erik’s arms and into a kiss full of tropical flavors and incandescent joy.


	12. Act Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a royal wedding. And a happy ending. It's about time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you!! to all the marvelous people who've read this and commented and encouraged and left kudos. Seriously, you have no idea how much that means. Thank you, thank you. *hugs you all* (Next up: modern!AU in which Charles is not exactly an escort and Erik's an activist artist and there's quite a bit of porn and Shaw is unpleasant and there're all the _feelings_...)

Twelve: _“my lord,” came the answer, “I love you more than all the world.”_  
  
Charles could see Erik, in dreams.   
  
Could speak with him, mind to mind, thoughts flowing together like streams, ripples into shared shimmering pools. Tropical flowers and green grass and low-hanging shade and endless blue waters; sweetly dusty old books and scrolls, the wood-grain dimness of a pub, the rewarding burn of good whiskey and a crackling fire. Smooth skin, constellated with freckles and scars, and sleek jewel-hued satiny sheets, a bed out of fairy-tale and imagination. Coming back together in all possible ways, connections winding them close, impossible ribbons of light.   
  
They knew each other’s hearts. And Charles was himself again, in dreams, with Erik.  
  
Only Erik.  
  
No one else.  
  
It wasn’t everything. Was barely even anything. And never waking; sometimes a hint of connection danced between sleep and full awareness, but only in the unguarded moments, as if that was somehow safer, simpler, for battered thoughts, these days. Not the glorious boundless ability of previous days.  
  
But Charles’s eyes lit up with delight, emotion answered by Erik’s heart, every time he whispered _Erik_ in dreams, and Erik heard.  
  
Hank theorized that it had something to do with their connection, flushing pink and tripping over words like “intimacy” and “depth”. Erik glanced sidelong at Charles, saw those blue eyes fighting not to laugh, and said, deliberately innocent, “depth? Charles, I didn’t realize we should be having conversations about this sort of thing; are humans generally not this well endowed, then? You _have_ been comfortable with the depth?” and Hank turned bright red and spluttered sounds that weren’t words and Charles gave up and laughed until he had to cling to Erik’s shoulder for balance.  
  
“Terrible,” Charles murmured, later, still snickering, and Erik slid his mouth back up and off of Charles’s cock long enough to inform him, “I _know_ you don’t mind the depth,” and then did _that_ particular movement with his tongue, just to hear the resultant gasp.  
  
“I love you,” he breathed, after, in the lazy sweat-sticky quiet, into Charles’s stomach, the wiry little trail of hair leading up to his belly button. “I love you. Always. Everywhere.”  
  
“Everywhere.” Charles’s hand twined itself into his hair, secure; Erik rested his head on a hipbone, carefully, though not as carefully as he might’ve done it weeks earlier. Charles liked feeling the weight, and could take it. “Always. Come up here and hold me?”  
  
“Of course.” The arm had healed cleanly; there’d be a scar, probably forever, but it would fade, and there seemed to be no pain when Charles reached for him. “Are you tired?”  
  
“Yes.” Honest; they always were, these days, with each other. “But I like holding you.”  
  
“So do I,” Erik admitted, face to face. His head had ended up on Charles’s shoulder this time, and Charles’s arms had stretched around him, even while Erik’s own arms instinctively folded all the freckles into an embrace.   
  
Once he might’ve hated the thought: someone _holding_ him, holding on to him, keeping him caged. He was a werewolf, and he was powerful; he was meant to be wild, and dangerous, and independent, because he _was_.  
  
He closed his arms around Charles a bit more firmly, and felt the corresponding tightening in return. Charles didn’t say anything, though, only settled his head against Erik’s on the pillow, so that their hair curled merrily together.  
  
“You should rest. If you’re tired.” He nudged that freckled nose with his. “Please.”  
  
“Mmm. Sleep with me?”  
  
“I thought we just—”  
  
“You do know what I mean.”  
  
“I know. I will.” One more kiss, butterfly-light and swift. “Tea parties on the lawn, again? Or am I joining you in the rose garden, this time?”  
  
“I only have any semblance of control once we’re there. Roses, though…I suspect I’ll never be able to encounter that scent without wanting to jump on you. Just so you’re aware.”  
  
“By all means. Then I can make love to you again. All night, if you’d like. Among the roses.”  
  
“Yes, well,” Charles said, “you _are_ the man of my dreams,” but he was smiling when he said it. And Erik’s heart, unexpectedly, found itself smiling too.  
  
The wedding preparations went inexorably on. Even Charles, who at first had said, “well, they want to celebrate, we should let them,” began to look somewhat alarmed, as plans for gargantuan ice-sculptures and a flock of turtledoves appeared at the breakfast table.  
  
Erik vetoed the doves. Nothing he might feel the need to chase.  
  
He wouldn’t really, but the idea made Charles roll his eyes, a sarcastically entertained expression that they both _felt_ , fleetingly, and while he was gazing at Charles in surprise that elegant voice said calmly to Raven, “No doves, then,” and they’d won the argument.  
  
Slowly, slowly, those fleeting moments became more frequent. Still only with Erik, still only unconscious slips, flares of thought and emotion when Charles wasn’t focusing. He didn’t try to ask; the only time he did, Charles looked away and shook his head: not wanting to talk about it, Erik guessed, not wanting to have hope, in case hope was all it ever would be.  
  
He himself had never been good at that emotion. Too cynical for that. But for Charles…  
  
For Charles, if Charles couldn’t, he could hope.  
  
He tucked that thought away, because Charles wouldn’t thank him for it; but he took it out, sometimes, in the afternoons, the long hours of meetings and measurings, plans and decorations, and unfolded it like paper roses, blooming along well-worn lines in his heart.   
  
Stranger things had happened. He’d been a feral werewolf, running through a forest. And now he was a King’s Champion, and marrying the man he loved.  
  
“Speaking of,” he’d said to Charles early on, a bit bemused by the apparent enthusiastic acceptance of their engagement by, well, everyone, “shouldn’t this be…more of a problem? Me. And you.”  
  
Charles, ensconced in what Erik’d thought was another scientific volume, looked up. “No. Why, do you want it to be?”  
  
“No. I was just…curious. They all seem so pleased.”  
  
“They are. But they also have no grounds to object.” Erik was a bit taken aback by the resolution in that voice; he’d not realized that Charles’d been thinking about it, too. Charles sat up. Handed over the book. “Here.”  
  
It proved to be a genealogical history of the succession. He stared at it. “Ah…”  
  
“Remember I told you Raven knew the rules of precedence better than I did? She’s been looking some things up for us. Like this specific law, which never has been repealed: if no appropriate match of noble blood can be found, the King’s—or Queen’s—Champion may be considered an eligible suitor. I certainly can’t think of anyone more appropriate for me, can you?”   
  
Those blue eyes were sparkling at him; Erik kissed him for that. Probably a bit too possessively; but Charles was his mate. He was allowed.  
  
“Mmm…very nice. I can always make you a duke of someplace, if you’re truly worried. We’ve likely got a few vacancies.”  
  
“No thank you,” Erik said, politely horrified. “I have enough to do. Also, _nice?_ ” Clearly he’d have to do better. So he did. Charles lay across his lap blinking in dazed satisfaction, after. Much better.  
  
His own book had been an account of the actual responsibilities of a Royal Champion, written by a man who’d been one himself, and knew something about the field of battle. Erik begrudgingly respected that, though the author seemed a bit too fond of flowery adverbs and anthropomorphism for his taste.  
  
Evidently he’d have to conduct training sessions and yearly parade reviews of Charles’s guardsmen. He was also theoretically required to wear an ermine-trimmed cape and magenta tights with garters on ceremonial feast days.  
  
He could definitely picture himself scowling at the guardsmen. The tights, however, were out of the question. The garters might have to be reserved for private audiences with his king; and he’d give even odds that they wouldn’t end up on _him_.  
  
He looked down at Charles’s thoroughly pleasured expression. He could probably talk Charles into it. Not right now, though. That wouldn’t be fair.  
  
One other question surfaced, vaguely related. “Charles?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Are you awake? One more question.”  
  
“No. What else do you need to know? I take it back, about the nice, by the way. That was splendid.”  
  
“Thank you,” Erik said, and played with his fingers. He liked Charles’s fingers. They had freckles, too. “It’s about…the succession.”  
  
“Ah.” Charles managed to raise an eyebrow at him while lying prone over his lap, which really shouldn’t be possible. “If we don’t have children, it goes to Raven. She’ll abdicate; she doesn’t want to rule. But it won’t matter. How many children would you like?”  
  
“…sorry, _what?”_  
  
“Any childless monarch can adopt,” Charles pointed out, patiently. His head was still on Erik’s thigh, which meant his lips were fairly close to Erik’s cock, which in turn couldn’t decide whether to be aroused by the tempting motion or terrified by the words. “ _We_ can adopt. However many you’d like.”  
  
“…oh god.”  
  
“I think you’d be a marvelous father.”  
  
“Oh _god_. Stop that.”  
  
“Well, it’s true. I’ve watched you with Sean and Alex and Angel. They adore you.” Charles stopped, bit his bottom lip, didn’t quite keep talking.  
  
“They’re afraid of me,” Erik observed, and ran a hand through that brandy-and-amber hair, and Charles tipped his head into the touch, eyes closing. “They adore _you_. You’ll be an excellent parent. You already are.”  
  
“I haven’t had the best of role models,” Charles said, but didn’t pull away from the hand.  
  
“So you know what the important things are,” Erik told him, and ran a thumbtip over one eyebrow, smoothing tense lines.   
  
“Mmm,” Charles said, “well, it’s something to think about, we don’t have to do anything yet,” which was unspoken concession, so Erik touched the fingers to his lips, agreement, and Charles kissed them, and then opened his mouth and started nibbling and licking and teasing in earnest, and they ended up scandalizing the mute book-lined library for the second time that afternoon.  
  
It was all splendid. Bittersweet in places, the moments when blue eyes still woke wide with nightmares or damp with loss; but the happy ending was all the clearer, he decided, for the contrast. It felt, not like a fairy-tale, but like something real.  
  
And then, three weeks to the day after their first euphoric dream-flavored encounter, Charles fell off the library sofa.  
  
It’d been a cool morning, unseasonably drizzly and damp; the mist wandered the castle grounds, and clung to windowpanes, peering plaintively in at roaring fires. Charles had just finished reading the first volume of Sir John Mandeville’s exotic travel accounts, most of which Erik thought were laughably sensational but which made those blue eyes dance, and started to get up; “Don’t even consider it,” Erik said, and disentangled himself from Charles and their blanket-cave with considerable reluctance, book in hand.  
  
He tucked that first volume back in place, neat and tidy, and had his hand on the second one, calf-skin smooth in his grasp; and then he heard the gasp, and the thump.  
  
He spun around. Bolted the steps to Charles’s side.  
  
“Don’t move—don’t sit up—let me—what were you attempting to do?”  
  
“Armando—” Charles was panting, breathless, eyes very bright. “I felt him, Erik, I could see him, right here—I could _hear_ —”  
  
“Charles, you need to breathe—that’s going to leave bruises—just breathe, please, your heart rate—”  
  
“Oh, bother my heart rate—” But Charles accepted his frantic support despite the protest, which meant something. “Do you understand, though? What I’m trying to say?”  
  
“I understand that you’ve just hit your head on the floor and your arm on the—”  
  
“Yes, all right—oh, ouch!—but it was Armando, Erik—”  
  
“Yes, you’ve said.” Armando was not dead, and was likely, Charles had said, to find his way back eventually. Therefore Erik’s priority was Charles. “And…that’s going to be a bad bruise. Can you feel this?”  
  
“Very definitely yes, and it feels painful. I’m all right—but, Erik, listen.” Charles sat up, mostly under his own power, and demanded, from the circle of Erik’s arm, “I heard him. In my head. The way I used to—the way I hear you. In dreams.”  
  
“That—I believe you, but—how is that—”  
  
“Possible?” Charles winced again, as Erik checked the rest of him over for other bruises. “I think—he’s gone now but I think—it’s _his_ ability, he’s the one reaching out, he’s figured out how to communicate with me—”   
  
Silence, abruptly.  
  
“Charles! Say something!”  
  
“Sorry—”  
  
“Are you all right!”  
  
“Yes, sorry, he’s back, he was saying hello to you actually—”  
  
“I don’t care.” He did, in fact—he’d liked the quiet competent guardsman—but not now. “I’m ringing for ice. And some of the salve Hank uses for sparring bruises. And I’m coating you in it. No arguments.”  
  
“No, I rather like you coating me in sticky things—ouch!”  
  
“Right there?” That one was a knee, and invisible under clothing; he’d tugged at the bell minutes ago, and began pushing aside interfering cloth. The maidservant appeared in the doorway, clapped her hand over her mouth, and started backing away.  
  
“Sorry!” Charles said to her. “Erik, stop that, I’m fine, I only landed rather unexpectedly, it was something of a shock. Get me Emma Frost, though, please?”  
  
Erik paused in the midst of issuing orders to stare at him. “Why?”  
  
Charles had the grace to blush. “Because we need a telepath, I think, to make this work?”  
  
“To make _what_ work, precisely?”  
  
“Well—if he can talk to me, and she can put us all into a link, we can guide him back to—”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Erik,” Charles said, and set a determined hand on his arm. “He died—or was injured, anyway—fighting for me. Because I, because we, asked. And I can do something to help him come back. So I will.”  
  
Erik knelt there on the library rug, one hand still frozen halfway through rolling up that trouser leg, the mist drifting languidly along the windowpane, and looked at those stubborn eyes. Charles. Charles, being himself, being a good king.  
  
He’d never believe it, if Erik said so. Wouldn’t understand just how few people would make that call, without hesitation, without self-concern.  
  
Or maybe he would. Charles did know about evil people, and bad people, and ordinary selfish people; Charles understood pain.  
  
“I love you,” he said. “Not today, at least. Please. Tomorrow. He’ll still be here tomorrow, correct?”  
  
A nod; Charles might’ve wanted to say something else, but didn’t.  
  
“Was that…a yes?”  
  
“Yes, he’ll be here tomorrow.” Charles let himself be picked up and transported back to the sofa. “I’d still like to talk to Lady Frost, though. To plan our attack, if you’d like a battle metaphor. And then you can cover me in salve and feed me tea and biscuits. I’m quite sure that’s one of your duties as a Champion.”  
  
“I think,” Erik said, “feeding you tea and biscuits probably falls under protecting your well-being,” and Charles smiled.  
  
The next morning, they started a bit later than they’d meant; Charles slept dreamlessly, and late, and Erik hadn’t wanted to wake him. The annoyed not-really-a-glare he got in response wasn’t enough to make him regret it.  
  
Emma Frost met them in the library, lifting an eyebrow. She didn’t comment on the tardiness, other than that. “Where would you like us?”  
  
“On the floor, I think,” Charles said, and plopped down in front of the sofa, using it as a backrest. Erik sat down beside him. Put his arm over those shoulders. “This way we’re less likely to fall off anything.”  
  
Her eyebrow went even higher, suggesting that she would never be so undignified as to tumble from furniture; but she sat down with them, smoothing white robes.  
  
“So. Shall we get on with this?”  
  
Erik resisted the urge to growl, at the tone. Charles was trying to help someone, not do her a personal favor by requesting the assistance.  
  
He wondered how difficult it’d been, for Charles to ask.  
  
Charles leaned a shoulder into him, comfortable. “Yes, if you would. Erik—”  
  
“Of course I am.” As if he’d let Charles do this alone.  
  
Emma Frost nodded, and, just that simply, the world went white.  
  
He knew they were still sitting on the library floor, thick plush rugs over old stone. But here they were in an ice castle, glittering and colorless and fantastically styled.   
  
Charles very tactfully said nothing. Erik found himself missing tropical fruit-trees, sweet oceans, green grass and blue wildflowers, with vast and depthless longing.  
  
She rolled her eyes at them. _Very well, Charles, shall we do this in YOUR head? Let you hold the link, if I set it?_  
  
 _We can’t!_ Charles protested, sounding startled; but they were.  
  
 _So much COLOR, darling, can’t you at least tone it down?_  
  
 _Erik—_ Charles was clinging to him, laughing, crying. _This, this, I’ve missed this so much—_  
  
Erik folded him up in nonexistent arms and rolled him over into the grass, kissing him, the scent of crushed springtime green floating up to surround them. _I love you._  
  
 _Are you two seriously thinking about the first place you had intimate relations? Charles, honestly, have some self-control. I expected better, from you._  
  
Charles sat up and shook grass out of his hair, unrepentant. _It’s where I’m most happy, I suppose._   
  
Erik kissed him again for that.  
  
 _Thank you. Now, then, we should—_  
  
 _Charles, what’s that?_  
  
 _Oh_. Charles looked at his feet. _I should’ve guessed you’d see that. It’s always here, for me._  
  
And he _could_ see it, abruptly in front of him when he focused, when the world flexed, malleable as iron to his hands. A dark cold charred spot, the left-behind ashes of a fire. Charles looked at it with some sadness, but didn’t turn away. Emma Frost shifted nonexistent weight, obviously disturbed by the emptiness.  
  
He took a small step forward. Put out a hand, towards the void. Wondering. _Does this hurt you?_  
  
 _No._ Charles took a step forward, as well. _It’s odd, though. Like phantom limbs, after an amputation. Ghosts of feeling. Erik, you don’t have to—_  
  
He’d never been afraid of dark places. And something tugged at the edge of his senses, crying for attention.  
  
 _Have you…_  
  
 _Emma tried. I’ve tried. It’s…dead._  
  
But it wasn’t. There were embers, there. He could see them. They glowed like molten coals, carbon-scored and long-banked and simmering under the thick blanket of ash.  
  
 _Oh, Erik, not now—_  
  
 _Yes, Erik,_ Emma Frost contributed, amused even without a physical embodiment to show it. _Not now. We’re here for a reason. Charles?_  
  
 _Oh,_ Charles said, a bit surprised, as if he’d not been expecting to take the lead. _All right, well…what he needs is an anchor. A reminder of…who he was on this plane. Just a nudge back into solidity, really. If we can get a good image of his body—er—well, Alex can probably assist with that, if you’d be so kind, Lady Frost?_  
  
Lady Frost smiled, very very slightly. Erik thought, at first, that that had to do with the request; and then he saw the way she was watching Charles, and he thought, hoping that only she could hear, _thank you._  
  
 _No need, sugar. After all—_ she paused, momentarily— _he gave me a home, too._ And then she reached out and shook Alex, hard, until he snapped into the link with them, blinking and dazed and grumbling something about roasted ox.  
  
 _Quiet. You needn’t bore me with details of your luncheon._  
  
 _Huh? Charles, what—wait, what?!_  
  
 _Sorry, Alex!_  
  
 _No, no problem, but—I thought you couldn’t—oh, shit, sorry—I mean, sorry, your majesty—_  
  
 _Stop that, honestly, you’ve known me for how long—_  
  
 _Charles, control your minion!_  
  
 _He’s not my minion!_ Charles said, at the same time as Alex objected, _I’m not a vegetable!_  
  
 _Minion, not onion!_ Emma Frost sounded impatient now. Erik, for his part, was desperately struggling not to snicker, or, beneath that, to mourn, at the way Charles had flinched at Alex’s unknowing question.  
  
 _It’s all right,_ Charles whispered, and the words didn’t come with a gentle tide of sensation the way they would’ve under his own guidance, but they were real nevertheless. _I’m all right. But thank you.—Now, Alex. It’s about Armando. You knew him best._  
  
 _I—Armando—_ That emotion nearly knocked them all over, relentless in its intensity. _Should’ve done better been faster been me instead of him—_  
  
 _No, no, listen, we think we can bring him back, he contacted me—_  
  
Shock, and gratitude, and a kind of instant belief that left both Erik and Emma Frost off-balance: Alex _knew_ that Charles could do anything, even now.  
  
 _Yes, well,_ Charles murmured, and shuffled non-existent feet. _We do require your assistance, at this point. Think about Armando for us, would you?_  
  
 _Like—_  
  
 _Anything that comes to mind. The more intimate the better, though, I’m afraid. The feel of him, the scent of him, the—the physicality—_ Charles was blushing. Erik sighed.  
  
 _Alex?_  
  
 _Oh, fuck, you’re here too?_  
  
 _Yes, and as Royal Champion I can order you to run laps around the castle if you say fuck around your king again. He’s missing a shape. We need you to give him one._  
  
 _He doesn’t have to run laps, Erik, good heavens, I know the word—_  
  
Erik thought something very pointed about Charles’s comprehensive knowledge of that word, and Alex said hastily, _Okay, got it, should I try now, I can try now, absolutely, okay?_  
  
 _Wait—_ Charles sounded somewhat distant. _Ah. Here._  
  
 _Hey,_ Armando said, a bit sheepish. _I just need a pathway, that’s all, thanks, guys—_  
  
At which point Alex’s emotions threatened to drown everyone. Charles reached for Erik’s hand, and held on, in the flood; Erik held him as tightly as he could.  
  
 _Everyone just FOCUS_ , Emma snapped. _Right. Charles, you’ve done this before—shaping a body, I mean. You can take the lead. Steer. I’ll push._  
  
Charles _had_ done this before, Erik thought, and was suddenly afraid, remembering. Exhaustion. Unconsciousness. Worse. And Charles was weaker this time.  
  
Charles gave his hand a brief mental squeeze, ignored all the objections belatedly bubbling their way to the surface, took Alex’s memories, spread them out, and wove them around Armando’s shape, shimmering like an open door.  
  
Erik swallowed, not physically, and prepared to be there, to be Charles’s strength. He couldn’t do anything else, couldn’t stop it all now, but he could do that.  
  
 _I think that should do it,_ Charles decided, at last. _Emma?_  
  
And she pushed, and the universe turned itself inside out, and erupted into solidity, all _four_ of them on the library floor, astonished and checking themselves and each other over and extremely real, and the thundering footsteps were Alex sprinting madly down the stairs outside.  
  
Emma Frost disentangled herself and sat up, looking coolly aloof as ever; but Erik didn’t miss the way she glanced at Charles, or the small nod she got in return. Charles, for his part, shut his eyes and curled into Erik’s hold, limp from overexertion; but it was only tiredness, nothing worse.   
  
And Alex burst through the door and into Armando’s utterly solid arms.  
  
Erik took Charles upstairs, tactfully, after that. Not that he suspected either of the others noticed. Emma Frost had already left.  
  
He tucked that thin form—still too slender, Charles had been eating more, but not enough, yet—into the bed, and poked at the omnipresent fire until it sent up a shower of reassuring sparks, and came back and put his arms around his mate. Charles murmured something, drowsily, and nestled closer against Erik’s chest.  
  
“Love,” Erik said, holding on to him. “I know you’re tired. I know. But please—please talk to me. Tell me you’re not hurt. Eat—something.” There was tea, and an assortment of finger sandwiches, on the bedside table. One of the innumerable maidservants, he guessed. They kept tea constantly on the boil, these days.  
  
 _I’m not hurt,_ Charles answered, yawning, and Erik’s heart flipped over in his chest.  
  
 _Charles—love—are you—_  
  
 _Oh!_ Dreamy, indistinct surprise; Charles really was exhausted. The connection, disrupted by startlement, flickered and threatened to blow out. Erik grabbed on to it, and clung. _Charles—_  
  
 _Ow!_  
  
 _Sorry, sorry—!_ He let go, instantly. Frightened to the core. “Did I—did that—”  
  
 _No, you only—I wasn’t expecting—_ Charles actually sat up, out of shock. “Erik!”  
  
“Was that…” His voice shook. So did his arm, inching around those shoulders, offering support. “Were you…”  
  
“I…I don’t…here, let me try something…” Charles gazed at him, breathed in, shut his eyes. _Can you—hear this?_  
  
 _Yes!_ It was barely a whisper. The merest sketch of sound, mind to mind. But it was Charles projecting. By choice. Awake.  
  
 _Well, not awake for long, I’m awfully tired…_  
  
 _Don’t push yourself. Please_. And his love and amazement and worry spilled over into the link, he could feel Charles feeling it, reacting… “What’s wrong?”  
  
“It’s only you.” Charles looked away. _It’s still only you. That pathway…_  
  
“Well,” Erik said, after a moment, “of course it’s me, you love me…” _And I love you_. And the hurt was swamped by laughter, after a second, and Erik held him upright and fed him tea and cucumber-cream-cheese sandwiches until he heard the wordless protest about fullness, and then he cuddled Charles against his own warmth until he saw, and sensed, those blue eyes drifting into sleep.  
  
He stayed awake. It was still afternoon; the pale dusty light meandered around clouds and through the window, and they’d succeeded, they’d brought back Armando, they’d done something incredible, and Charles—well.   
  
He looked at that tangle of dark hair, spread out over the pillow and his arm. Charles’s lips were parted, and those long eyelashes rested innocently over the powdering of freckles, deceptively young and harmless and without care, for a brief while.  
  
Embers, he thought again. Not ashes. Charles could talk to him.   
  
And he stayed awake, there in the dwindling light of their triumph, and kept his arms where they were, a fortress; thought about possibilities and hope once more, remaining on guard while his king slept.  
  
Charles woke up with the advent of the evening, long streaks of violet and fuchsia and marigold across the sky, turning the world to rainbows. Erik said, “Good morning, love,” and got a confused head-tilt, hair spilling into one eye. “It positively can’t be morning already…also, did you stay here this whole time? You didn’t have to.”  
  
“It’s sundown.” He ignored that second comment. Undeserving of reply. Tucked the hair back, instead. “We can go down to supper, or I can have them bring it up here. What do you feel up to?”  
  
Charles pondered options, not moving from his spot in Erik’s embrace. “Stairs…”  
  
“What about the stairs?”  
  
“We should go down. Although…”  
  
“That bad?”  
  
“Yes, in fact, but…” Charles put a hand into his hair, tugged him into a kiss. “I did want to try something. And I think I’d rather be up here, already, and in bed…”  
  
“What—”  
  
 _Erik?_ Tentative. Thin as spider-silk, gossamer and down. Less of a word, more of a heartbeat, a starburst of love and desire and pain and admiration and appreciation and affection, precious metals and loss and shifting shapes and anticipation and challenge: what Charles thought about, thinking his name.  
  
 _Love you_ , Erik whispered back, and tried to offer the same, tried to be as open as he could, inviting that shy feather-touch in more deeply. _Does this—hurt you?_  
  
 _It’s like writing with a broken hand…_ Honesty, there; he could see it, like smoke-signals in the imaginary air. _But not more than I can handle. At least not for now._  
  
It was still only him; he knew that without having to ask. The closeness meant less distance, he guessed. Easier bridges.  
  
He contemplated constructions, for a timeless minute. _Charles?_  
  
 _Hmm?_ That telepathic presence twined itself around him, a contented kitten, boneless and satisfied.  
  
 _Can I…ask you about something?_ He pictured that dark space again, burnt-out and weighed down by pale ash. Thought, one more time, about reconstructions.  
  
 _Oh_ , Charles said, and went very quiet.  
  
 _The way we brought Armando back—that kind of focus—would that work, for you?_  
  
Charles walked over to the scorched earth, away from him. Knelt down. Touched the wound, fingers sifting through fine black dust. _I…don’t think so_.  
  
It was a truthful answer; Charles wasn’t simply dismissing the idea. Erik sat down beside him, cross-legged. _Why not?_  
  
 _What we did for Armando…that structure was already there. His body knew it, and his gift lies in adaptation, in change. He could…pour himself back into the mold. His shape_. A laugh, not exactly amused: _He’ll no doubt be even stronger, in fact. Physicality just another option. My mold, though, I think that’s broken._  
  
 _You have me,_ Erik told him, holding his incorporeal hand. _I can imagine your shape._  
  
Charles shook his head. _I’d know—I’d be too aware, during the process. I can’t rebuild myself from the inside, that way. I’ve tried—not now, I mean. When I was younger. When I was—trying to lose some of those memories. The awful ones. I can’t. I remember everything._  
  
Erik put both arms around him, and held him, on the edge of the desolation.  
  
 _It IS better. This is better—I can hear you, and that’s like—thinking I’d be completely blind, and seeing a silver of light, one morning, out of one eye. Seeing your face. And that’s enough. That’s a whole world._  
  
 _Well,_ Erik said, stroking fingers through that mischievous hair, _I hope it’s an attractive one_ , and Charles laughed, and kissed him squarely on the lips, intangible and physical at the exact same time.

The night before the wedding, he couldn’t sleep.   
  
It wasn’t nerves, or doubt, or any of that. He’d never been more certain of anything. He wanted to be here. Right here, at Charles’s side.  
  
But he was still restless.  
  
Charles had insisted on as small a ceremony as conceivably possible, and a purely civic one, no Church involvement, not that the Church particularly cared for the gifted; Charles didn’t even keep a token representative at his court. But he did have judges, trained in law at the universities, and perfectly able to legalize weddings.  
  
That was part of the restlessness, perhaps, he thought, and kicked at the heavy down-filled coverlet with one foot, but circumspectly, not wanting to disturb Charles.   
  
He’d never much bothered to picture his own wedding. He’d never thought about it as a boy, and the years between had been filled with Shaw, and fear, and exile in the forest. But if he had…  
  
He recalled that golden memory, the first one that Charles had recovered for him: candles, and his mother singing.  
  
He’d’ve wanted his parents to see that day. And some things remained impossible. Forever out of reach, now.  
  
He was a King’s Champion. About to be a Royal Consort, the title they’d settled on after much frenetic wrangling with the Heraldic College. He wondered whether his mother would be proud.  
  
Charles sighed, in sleep, and shifted a foot, brushing his.  
  
The moon was out, an opalescent circle amid the stars. A half-moon, not full; the full moon would always sing in his blood, like tides in the iron, stirring in his heart. Charles would let him run, he knew, and would have faith that he’d return, these days. He always would. He’d always want to: that compass-needle would constantly point here, to home.  
  
He was wide-awake, lying there, and Charles needed to rest. There were big plans for the next day. The ceremony, of course. And Erik’s plans for him for after the ceremony, as well.  
  
He slid out of bed with caution, and padded across the fluffy rug to the window, and propped his arms on the companionable sill and leaned there for a while, not thinking about anything in particular, under the moon.  
  
After a while he heard the rustle of bedclothes, and equally obvious attempts to be stealthy, and turned around in time to meet blue eyes as Charles navigated his way across the room. He could’ve said _I was trying not to wake you_ or _go back to bed, I’ll be right there_ or even _I’m not leaving you_ ; instead, he held out an arm, meaning all of those sentences, and Charles let himself be tucked in against Erik’s body, both of them naked. The moonlight made all that pale skin glow, and highlighted the freckles, bespelling them into mysterious and exotic scatterings of shadow.  
  
“It’s a lovely night.” Charles was looking at the moon, as well. He’d waited a while to speak up; Erik was surprised he’d lasted that long. “Magical, perhaps. Enchanted. Anything might happen.”  
  
“Anything at all.” He could feel Charles’s heartbeat, under his hand. In time with his own. “Happy endings. A king, and his consort…”  
  
“And a royal wedding.”  
  
“And a royal wedding. Charles…you are happy, aren’t you?” He’d not meant to ask. Somehow he’d had to, in the moment, in the night. Reflection. The moon encouraged it.  
  
Charles wove their fingers together, in starlight. Confident, unerring. “Yes. You were…I think I overheard you, earlier. I thought I was dreaming. But I wasn’t, was I? I’m sorry. I wish they could be here, for you, for this. I wish I could give you that.”  
  
“It’s all right.” It was. His parents would’ve liked Charles, he thought. His mother would have clucked her tongue and tried to fatten him up, and his father would have plunged headfirst into long conversations about history and the scientific method and trial and error.  
  
They’d be happy for him. For him and Charles, together.  
  
“Would you…it’s not too late, we could change the ceremony…I don’t know much about Jewish customs, but we’ve got an extensive library…”  
  
“No,” Erik said, and hugged him for the thought, tightly enough to prompt a small squeak that wasn’t a protest, trying to wrap arms and legs and his whole body around that shorter one just because, even though it was impossible with them standing upright. “This will be perfect.”  
  
“Are you—”  
  
“You know I’ve never exactly practiced the faith. And tomorrow…that’s for everyone else. The legalities. The ceremony. The show.”  
  
“Really,” Charles said, dryly. “So…what part of it’s for us, then?”  
  
“This part.” He tipped that head up, kissed the closest earlobe, let his teeth graze the soft skin of that throat. Charles shivered. “Here, under the moonlight…when I tell you that I love you, that I’ve claimed you, that you’re mine already. You asked. And I said yes. And I think that makes us married.” A slightly more forceful bite, at the enticing line of muscle between neck and shoulder; not quite hard enough to leave a mark, but close. Charles yelped his name, somewhere between arousal and argument.  
  
“That _hurt_. Bloody possessive werewolves. All right, yes. To everything. I love you, and I’m yours, and this is for us, right now. Take me back to bed and bite me again?”  
  
“Mmm. Not just yet. I like holding you.” He did like the idea—the arousal was growing, though not insistent, yet—but he was still feeling a bit introspective. And he was enjoying the sensation of Charles in his arms. “ _Did_ that hurt? Or—”  
  
“Oh. No, not really. I liked it. I like the idea of you leaving marks on me, tonight, me walking around that way, at the wedding, no one knowing except us, but you’ll be picturing your mouth on me all day…”  
  
“Tease,” Erik informed him, and found Charles’s chest and then that sensitive nipple with one hand, and reciprocated. “You can wait.”  
  
“ _You_ can see to my well-being. Champion.” But Charles stopped trying to seduce him, not that that was going to help at this point, and settled back into the embrace. “I did mean it, about the night, before. It feels…”   
  
“As if you’ve just gotten married to a werewolf?”  
  
“Precisely.” Charles leaned against him, cozy and intimate. Tipped his head back against Erik’s chest. “It feels imminent, I think. As if you could simply reach out, and touch everything you’ve ever wanted…”  
  
Erik tightened both arms around him. Bent his head, put his nose into the hollow behind Charles’s ear, and breathed in the scent of him. “I can.”  
  
And Charles laughed, secure and cherished and safe, in the moonlight.  
  
The night glowed around them, numinous and warmly infinite. The sturdy stone walls breathed out, comfortable and loose. Erik breathed in and out too, and held Charles, and thought about the morning to come, and the way those blue eyes smiled, each time they found his.  
  
He could hear the soft murmur of the idle breeze, the call of an owl, off in the distance; closer, the hum and chatter of iron and copper and metal in the great keep’s construction, all the stories of battle and protection and domesticity and safeguarded life. Could feel Charles breathing, and the steadiness of it seeped into his bones; the impression he got was of slightly wistful affection, love and sweetness trailing bronze and cream and pink and gold, the colors of sunset, or possibly sunrise, over the banners at dawn. Charles thinking about Erik’s parents, and, not without some regret, about his own.  
  
He felt Charles kiss him without moving, then, setting those memories decidedly aside. The way he felt those kisses in dreams.  
  
And it did seem like a dream, shared awareness diffusing out through the night: two corridors away, Alex and Armando celebrating a return to life enthusiastically; Sean saving the world from giant reptiles in colorful nighttime fantasies; the nightwatchmen on guard on the walls, proudly loyal and determined that no harm would come to their king this night; Angel shifting in her sleep, near-waking at the jar of a healing wing, caught by the edge of pain; and Charles reached out and soothed the hurt away with a gentle hand, letting her fall back into rest—  
  
 _Charles!_  
  
 _Erik—!_  
  
 _You—you—what was—you can—_  
  
 _I can,_ Charles gasped, astonished, _I CAN—!_ and spun around to face him, lost balance, the world exploding in kaleidoscopic brilliance, and Erik stumbled too at the overwhelming crash of sensation physical and mental and barely managed to catch them both as they tumbled to their knees, himself grabbing at Charles, amazed, astounded, thrilled beyond words.  
  
 _Erik_ , Charles said again, panting, dizzy with joy, _I can hear—I can feel—_  
  
 _I know, I know you can, how—_  
  
 _I don’t know, I don’t KNOW, I just did it—I wasn’t thinking, wasn’t even trying to—here, see for yourself—_  
  
And he was pulled into the glimmering universe, the way that Charles saw the world, perceptions and ideas and passions overlapping like swirls of precious gems, light glinting from all the facets; each one was a person, and each person bright and dark and compelling and complicated, the gifted even clearer and Erik himself burning like a signal fire, unwavering and fierce and true, and the whole world like a gleaming unfinished tapestry, a treasury of threads in silver and copper and ruby and gold stretching out in all directions, for Charles to pluck or play with or weave in new patterns if he chose, and he rarely chose because the weaving was so damned beautiful already—  
  
 _Charles_ , Erik breathed, with reverence. He’d never known. _You are extraordinary_.  
  
Charles laughed, and the light-web laughed with him. Erik wondered whether the world was dancing, outside. _This is me. That’s all._  
  
 _But you—you are—_ All of this. Coruscatingly powerful and heartbreakingly kind and awesome, in the truest sense of the word. He’d never quite understood how much Charles had lost, until now _._  
  
 _I love you,_ he said, and heard Charles say the words at the exact same time, overlapping. The universe rang with it. Creation must have felt that way, the ecstatic birth of joy.  
  
 _I love EVERYTHING_ , Charles shouted, still laughing, _but especially you, yes—oh, and I love being married to you, Erik—_  
  
 _I know, I love you!_  
  
Charles was looking up at him, encircled in his arms, as they clung to each other there on the old stone floor, as the nails of wall-hangings and the iron fire-grate trembled in wordless elation. Erik kissed him, quick and definitive. Charles kissed him back, equally wild and exultant and free.  
  
But out of breath, not sitting up on his own. Erik stopped kissing him. Thought the question, not out loud.  
  
 _I’m all right. I’m only—it’s so much, and I never—I was so afraid to even think—_  
  
 _Is it…_  
  
 _It’s not the same—_ Charles hesitated. _It’s_ _not quite the same. It’s like scar tissue. On a once-burned arm._ They both knew about scar tissue. About the way it might bend, and stretch, and pull in awkward directions. But the arm would be usable, in the end.  
  
 _Yes._  
  
 _Yes. Can you sit up? Or…_  
  
 _Possibly not,_ Charles conceded. _But I am all right. I’m…_  
  
 _I know._ He did. He scooped Charles off the unyielding stone floor and into bed. Settled there beside him, running fingertips over him, wanting—no, needing—to touch that skin as well as their thoughts, to feel all of him.   
  
Eventually, other bodies would arrive and start banging on the door; Charles’d likely jolted every person within five miles out of bed. But here and now, this was theirs. Their moment.  
  
 _You know_ , he said, very privately, _I would love you in any case. With or without this. Or if it’s difficult, and leaves you exhausted. I will carry you everywhere if you end up exhausted. If you’d like me to. I love you._  
  
 _Erik,_ Charles said, and laughed again, too much pleasure to be contained, rippling through them in exuberant waves. _I know you will. And…I’ll ask you, if I need that. I promise_. “Though that may end in me asking you to carry me to bed. For sex. Just so you know.”  
  
“I wouldn’t complain.” _Thank you for that._  
  
 _Of course. I love you._ And, as the first taps sounded at the door, “Oh—should we—”  
  
“No. They’ll see you tomorrow. At the wedding. You wanted my mouth on you, you said…” _Like this?_  
  
 _Oh yes like that—!_ “Oh, the wedding…there was something I meant to tell you—oh, do that again—about the cake—”  
  
 _That?_ “You’re thinking about our wedding-cake now?”  
  
“Yes, because—” Charles paused to shout a reassuring _Go away, we’re busy!_ at the noises beyond the long-suffering door, and finished, _yes, because, you see, they went with sugared roses, they’ll be lucky if we make it through the ceremony, since I’ll be thinking about sex with you every time I see a petal, now kiss me THERE!_ and Erik laughed out loud, and Charles smiled.  
  
The ceremony was, of course, perfect. Short, and heartfelt, and beautiful; the weather was perfect too, the lake shining with all its might in the sun, the trees bursting with green, the breeze just enough to be cool and not enough to interfere. Raven and Hank were the attendants; Raven scowled at Hank for tearing up, and then promptly did so herself.  
  
The castle staff had outdone themselves decorating the banquet hall for the feast. Newly commissioned tapestries commemorating Erik and Charles, Champion and King. Mountains of food, enough to send home with every guest. Bouquets of white roses everywhere, because someone’d mentioned that Charles liked them.  
  
And if both king and Champion occasionally looked at each other and blushed, or laughed out loud, well, they were newly married. Surely they had every right to be overcome by joy. And if they left early, the Champion tenderly picking his king up in both strong arms and striding out of the hall—the romance of which gesture sent sighs around the hall—well, that was acceptable as well. In any case, the act was such a sweet one, murmured the guests; they all knew the story, or parts of it, though certainly the king didn’t seem all that fragile these days, positively healthy in fact, but it was lovely of his husband to treat him with such care nevertheless, and he ought, in the opinion of several older ladies, to enjoy it.  
  
Up in their bedroom, Erik nudged the door shut with a foot, and kissed those happy lips again; Charles, grinning hugely, observed, _you can put me down now, and I’m fine, you know I am, I could’ve walked—_  
  
 _You might’ve slipped on a rose petal. There were so many._  
  
 _I know, I’m sorry, I can’t imagine why—_  
  
 _That…may in fact be my fault._ “Sorry.”  
  
“Why—never mind. Take me to bed now.” _I’ll ask you later_.  
  
“Bed…yes.” He set Charles down, amid new pristine welcoming linens. _First…I have something for you._  
  
 _We said no gifts!_ “ _You_ said no gifts!”  
  
“I know. But…these rings…” He held up Charles’s hand. “They’re the traditional royal regalia, correct?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Will anyone notice if we…wear something different?”  
  
“Possibly, but no one will care.” Charles was looking at him quizzically. _Why, don’t you like them? They are rather ostentatious, I admit…_  
  
“I don’t _dis_ like them. But…” He tugged the little metal box out from under the pillows, where he’d hidden it that morning. _We said no gifts. And I did listen. But this is for both of us. I…made these._  
  
Out of small fragments of metal, collected from various places. A strand of gold from Charles’s unicorn tapestry. Shavings from the pieces of the chess set they played with, unnoticeable offerings from each figure. Bits of the bridle of the horse Charles had fallen from, the day they’d met. A gilt-edged decoration from his own wedding-shirt.  
  
 _You made these_ , Charles said softly, gazing at the rings. _For us._  
  
 _Do you…like them?_ He was holding his breath. Had forgotten how to exhale. He’d been proud of them—had enjoyed making them in a way he’d not known for years, the unaccustomed delight of creating with his gift instead of causing harm—but maybe Charles didn’t approve of the idea, or wanted something more elaborate than the simple multicolored bands, or—  
  
He realized that Charles was crying. Quietly, no fuss, only quick transparent falling tears.  
  
 _Are you—_  
  
 _I love you_ , Charles said, and flung both arms around him; Erik barely kept hold of the box. _I love them, and I love you, so much—_  
  
 _Yes—and I love you—can I…_  
  
 _Please!_ Charles kissed him, laughing, sniffling slightly, blinking away the last tears. _Please, yes—here, get rid of the ostentatious one, would you—_  
  
He did. Set it on the mantel, by the fireplace; they’d remember to pick it up later. For now…  
  
He slid the ring down over the offered finger, slowly. It fit there flawlessly. And it just looked right.  
  
“Here,” Charles said, and picked up the other one, and put it on his finger, in turn. Erik regarded their matching hands for a while, letting the moment have its meaning; and then grinned at Charles, and tightened the one on that freckled finger, just a fraction. Warmed it, too, for good measure.  
  
Charles’s look of surprise melted into admiration—and arousal—gratifyingly quickly.   
  
Perfect, Erik thought again, purposefully clear for the picking-up, all _mine_ , and Charles started laughing and pulled him down into the bed, one last stray rose petal tumbling out of all that excited hair to land on a pillow, and answered _yes, all yours,_ and _yes, we are_.

 

  
_the adventure that you have heard_   
_truly happened, there is no doubt_   
_and the lay of the werewolf was made_   
_so it would be remembered forever_   


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for "More Than All The World (The Werewolf's Tale)"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/739074) by [avictoriangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl)
  * [Art inspired by More than all the world](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3205655) by [Mikanskey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikanskey/pseuds/Mikanskey)




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